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tORA CREINA 




By. 


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(Mrs. Hungerford) 





Author 

of... 

“ Nor Wife 
Nor Maid ” 

“ Peter’s 
Wife ” 

“ Molly 
Bawn ” 

Etc. 









AMERICAN PUBLISHERS CORPORATION 
0-318 SIXTH Avenue 


New York 


Fortnightly 
Scries No. 20 


THE“ DUCHESS” 

( Mrs. Hungerford) 


I NORA 
. CREINA ' 


Price, 50 Cents 


American 

Publishers 

Corporation 


Issued Fortnightly 
Annual 

Subscription, $ii.oo 


Entered as Second- 
Class Matter 
at the 

New York, N. Y., 
Post-Office 


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Aathor of 

"Nor Wife Nor Maid'' 
" Peter's Wie" 

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New York 
AMERICAN 
PUBLISHERS 
CORPORATION 
310-318 Sixth Avenue 







Copyright, iSqy, 

American Publishers Corporation 




NORA CREINA. 


CHAPTER I. 

“ Oh, the red rose shineth rare, 

And the lily saintly fair. 

But my shamrock, one in three, 

Takes the inmost heart of me.” 

‘‘ ‘ Oh, my Nora Creina, dear, My own, my artless, Nora 
Creina, Nature’s dress is loveliness. The dress you wear, 
my Nora Creina,’ ” sings Sophie gayly. 

“ I always look on that as a most immoral song,” says 
Nora, regarding her sister with strong disapproval — at 
all events with disapproval as strong as the shaky old 
apple branch on which she is so imprudently reclining 
will allow. “ Just think what would happen if one did go 
about like that.” 

“ Thinking is superfluous,” says Sophie, ‘‘ when one 
knows. A demon policeman would at once enter from 
the right and carry you off to Ward 120, or 190, or some- 
thing. At all events they’d put you in the lock-up. 
That’s the worst of law and order. Nobody can be the 
least little bit original nowadays without ” 

“Without incurring public censure, true!” says Nora 
with a sigh. “ But anyway I wish you would not sing 
that hateful song at me ! I ham a few rags on,” with a 
rueful glance at the old, blue, washed-out linen she is 
wearing, that is so considerably the worse for the wear- 
ing, and that shows such an unkindly longing to give way 
at the elbows. “ So I don’t see why I am to be accused 
of indecency. Sometimes I wish I had not been christened 
Nora, and certainly I wish that song had never been 
written.” 

“Why?” asks Sophie, who is sitting upright on a 


c 


NOUA CliEINA. 


branch opposite to her (they have climbed into the very 
heart of the ancient apple tree), and who is so enveloped 
in leaves that she has to peer through them to see her 
sister’s face. 

A face well worth a glance! well worth a thousand 
glances. 

“ Why As if you didn’t know. As if you didn’t hear 
every one dinning it into my ears morning, noon, and 
night. Not a single man comes into this place without 
quoting it to me.” 

“ I’m glad it is only the smgle men,” puts in Sophie 
demurely. 

“ One would think,” goes on Nora, leaning forward in 
the rashest way, the branch creaking beneath her, “that 
there wasn’t another girl of my name in the world ! I 
tell you if this persecution is to last. I’ll change my 
name.” 

“Well, I don’t blame you,” says Sophie mildly. “I 
confess I should like to get married, too. Life in this old 
roost promises to be anything but pleasant presently.” 

“ Married ! Who’s talking of getting married? Non- 
sense ! ” says Miss Carew indignantly. “Z don’t want to 
get married. I only meant that I should change my 
Christian name. I shall get re-christened some way or 
other, and bury the obnoxious Nora, as in story books 
those unpleasant people with feathers in their hair bury 
the hatchet.” 

“ Is that all? ” says Sophie. She stirs, and settles her- 
self more luxuriously on the treacherous perch. “It isn’t 
much,” says she. 

“Not to you, perhaps. But to me 

“Who has been vexing you lately, Noll?” asks Sophie, 
glancing at her sister keenly. “ Cyril ? ” 

“ Cyril ! No As the elder Miss Carew says this she 
leans quickly back and so brings a branch between her 
and her sister’s somewhat too decided, if kindly gaze. 
“If — if you must know, it was Mr. Carnegie. Yesterday 
at Aunt Maria’s, he, too, called me ‘Nora Creina.’ Very 
rude, Y thought.” 

“ Not more rude of him than of Cyril.” 

“ Oh ! Cyril ! Why Cyril is sort of a cousin, and quite 
an old friend ” 


NOBA CREINA, 


7 


Mr. Carnegie is an old friend too, by all accounts.” 

“Very old certainly — but as to being a friend ” 

“ It appears he knew us long ago, when we were little 
children — before he left Ireland.” 

“ Did he ? ” indifferently. “ I don’t remember him.” 

“ I confess I don’t either, but I suppose he did know us 
then, as he lived here until the death of his father, old 
Lord Connamore. After all, you know, I think I can 
remember him.” 

“ So can I.” l^ora laughs as if at some inward thought. 
“ It seems so funny about Mr. Carnegie having a father,” 
says she. 

“ Does it ? Most people have one.” 

“ Yes, but he looks as if he might be his own father.” 

“ I don’t see that,” says Sophie. “ He is nor so very 
dilapidated in appearance as all that comes to. He is not 
so really old. In spite of his grave air ” 

“ Grave-yard air ! ” 

“ He can’t be more than forty.” 

“ Ah ! Do make it twenty ! ” entreats Nora. 

“Well ! Aunt Maria says he is only thirty-three.” 

“ Aunt Maria, as we all know, would say anything.” 

“ Still, he hasn’t a gray hair in his head.” 

“ I wonder what dye he uses,” says Nora. At this 
both girls laugh involuntarily. 

“ Well, malign him as you will, I shall stick to my own 
opinion. And I am glad he has come back to that nice 
old place. His eyes are kind — so kind. He looks as if he 
couldn’t nag ! ” 

“ Oh ! I daresay ! ” — ^Nora sighs, “ That’s a point xoe can 
appreciate,” says she. “ Sir Fell can nag with a ven- 
geance ! ” 

“ Don’t start that subject ! ” says Sophie, “ if you regard 
your life ! A very little storm would reduce this tree to 
firewood, and it would be anything but a little storm if I 
once began to state my private views of Sir Fell! Talk of 
the typical step-father ! Those old idiots who wrote about 
the orphans’ woes, and their sufferings at the hand s of step- 
parents had never known Sir Fell ! There ! let him rest ! 
If indeed he ever can rest with the burden of his iniquities 
so full upon him. We were talking of — of what, Nora ? ” 

“Who can remember?” says Nora indolently. 


NOEA CREINA, 


I can. Of Mr. Carnegie and Cyril, and ” — mis- 
chievously — “ Nora Creina.” 

“ Oh ! says Nora. 

‘‘ As for Cyril ! A ‘ sort of cousin ’ you call him ! Well, 
for my part, I am glad he is only a ‘ sort of cousin.’ I 
don’t much care for him, do you ? ” 

Here Sophie makes a second attempt to see her sister’s 
face, and this time succeeds ; if Nora had been trying again 
to baifle her, she had given up the attempt in good time 
(finding it to be hopeless), and now regards Sophie with 
an artless smile. 

“ To ‘ much care ’ for a person — that means so much ! ” 
says she. “ And as for you — I thought you did not care 
for Cyril at all.” 

“ Oh ! well. He is passable enough — sometimes even, I 
think him possible. Do you know, Nora, the funny thing 
about Cyril is that I am never quite sure whether I do or 
do not like him.” 

Ah ! That is so natural! ” says Nora, picking off a 
green leaf and letting it drop lightly to the ground ; she 
leans over to watch its descent, thus her face is lost again 
to view. 

“ What is ? ” asks Sophie directly. 

‘‘ Why, the not being sure — the uncertainty.” 

“ Well, there’s one thing quite sure ; he thinks he’s in 
love with you ! ” 

“ I wish to goodness, Sophie, you would mind your own 
business,” says Nora, now of her own accord letting her 
sister see her face. A rather pale face too. “ Whatever 
Cyril thinks^ is nothing to me. He is my very good friend 
and I am his. Let it rest there.” 

I wish it would,” says Sophie. 

“ It doesP 

“ Then what’s the meaning of his sitting in your 
pocket all day long; and staring at you as if you had 
seven heads ? ” 

“ Perhaps that is it,” with a rather uneasy laugh. 
‘‘ Perhaps he regards me as a natural curiosity. Monsters 
are much regarded.” 

“ It is not that,” says Sophie. “ It is because he re- 
gards your one head as a marvel of beauty.” 

‘‘ Sophie ! ” 


NORA CR INA, 


9 


“ Tut ! My good child, what’s the good of posing, to 
me ? To pretend you don’t know Cyril is in love with 
you ? ” 

“ Or ‘ thinks ’ he is ! ” (Evidently that word had 
rankled ! ) 

“ Just so,” coolly. “ To pretend that, to me.” 

“ Well — supposing he is in love with me, what then ? ” 
asks Nora, rather defiantly. 

Nothing I hope ! ” imperturbably. 

Nora’s little fragile figure seems to shrink backwards. 
Her eyes fall to her hands, clasped, lightly in her lap. 
Even thus, with her wonderful eyes hidden, she is alto- 
gether beautiful ! 

Heredity has done many things for Nora Carew ! The 
Desmonds, the O’Connors, the Des Yeauxs, were all 
famed for their beauty, and of them are Nora’s ancestors. 
From the fiowers of their charms she seems to have culled 
the sweetest colors and the choicest sweets. Like a fair, 
priceless lily — fragile, slender, exquisite — she stands apart, 
the very type of beauty perfected. 

Her face is as pure as dew, as clear as sunlight, and 
lovely beyond words. The girl herself hardly knows 
how good she is to look at. Such eyes ! Such lips ! The 
eyes so dark and blue ! The lips so gay, so sad ! And the 
bright nut-brown hair so full of lights and shades. 

It is a very colorless little face, yet healthy in its pallor, 
the white of it being soft, like cream. And she is such a 
little creature ! Such a tiny girl ! Too slight almost for 
living — yet not too slight to distract the hearts of. men, 
and set them thinking. A most slender maiden, with 
eyes — deep Irish eyes — set in such sweet surround- 
ings, and with a heart too big for her fiower-like body — 
though up to this she is hardly aware that her heart is 
thus arranged for sorrow, and is only just awakening to 
the fact that she has a heart at all in this sweet, fragile 
frame of hers. 

Just now the long dark lashes lying on her cheeks look 
like shadows, her lips are tremulous — the sun glinting 
through the gnarled old apple tree is turning her locks 
to gold. 

“ No man there is but knows — 

Her face was white • • . 


10 


NOEA CEEINA, 


In no wise lacked there any praise at all 
To her most perfect and pure maidenhood : 

No sin I think there was in all her blood.” 

Suddenly she lifts her head. 

“ Why do you say that, Sophie ? ” says she. Her del- 
icate cheek has caught a soft flush, her eyes are full of 
tears. When Nora’s eyes grow full of tears, misery falls' 
on the beholder. 

“ I don’t know,” says Sophie contritely, giving in at 
once, and feeling herself something very little less than 
an assassin. “ Y ou’re awfully mad with me now, Nollie ; I 
know you are ; you’re always angry when I say a word 
against Cyril. And, like the parrot, I a,m sorry I spoke, 
but ” 

She breaks off abruptly. She half rises on her bend- 
ing branch. Her eyes express terror. Nora too makes a 
movement, and clinging to the trunk of the tree stares 
downwards and sidewards towards the small moss-grown 
path that runs almost to their feet. Beyond it, making a 
private entrance to the garden, is a tall, narrow iron gate, 
overhung with ivy, and through this, Nora’s horrifled eyes 
see two men coming. 

‘‘It’s them!'''* says she, regardless of grammar, throw- 
ing up her head, and gazing at Sophie as if petrifled. 


CHAPTER II. 

“ O Paddy, dear, and did you hear 
The news that’s going round ? ” 

“ So it is,” says Sophie airily. “ I was so afraid it was 
Sir Fell. Let’s get down.” Here she makes an attempt 
to put one foot on the branch below her. 

“Sophie,” says Nora, catching her gown. “Are you 
mad ? To go down like this ! ” pointing to her gown. “ Oh 1 
you must be mad.” 

“Nonsense!” says Sophie. “Why it is only Bobbie 
and Cyril. Here ! come along.” Sophie is evidently most 


MOnA CBEINA. 11 

ambitious to return to mother earth, and makes another 
step in that direction. But Nora holds her firmly. 

Bobbie is one thing,” says she. “ He is our real cousin 

and as good as our brother, but Cyril ! Oh ! Sophie, 

clonH, I canH go down ; and if you do, they will know I 
am here. And there is a great big tear in my frock just 
at the end of the skirt ! I did it when climbing up. Oh ! 
^chy did I climb up ? It is in ribbons ! Sophie,” seeing 
even still an intention on the latter’s part to descend. “ If 
you go down now. I’ll never forgive you!^^ 

“ But why ? ” demands the younger Miss Carew impa- 
tiently. “Can’t you hold up your skirt. I’m sure if 
Bobbie saw me with my skirt in ribbons, or,” thoughtfully, 
“without a skirt at all! he would like me all the same. 
Can’t you tuck it up ? I do want to see Bobbie ! I’ve 
something to say to him and I know he has something to 
say to me : and ” 

“ Go down then ! ” says Nora, loosing her hold of her 
sister’s frock and drawing back her lissome figure as far 
as she can. 

“Oh! we all know what that means,” says Sophie. 
“ Treachery and desertion. Of course I shan’t desert you, 
and you know that. But I must say, Nora, that I think 
you are something of a fool ! Yes, you are ! It’s rude, if 
you like, but I keep to it.” Sophie’s wrath, though ex- 
pressed in a whisper is exceedingly strong. 

“A fool!” 

“ Yes. You’re afraid of him ! You’re afraid of Cyril ! 
You think he won’t go on loving you if he sees you out of 
‘silk attire’; that he will fail to appreciate you if you 
don’t look your best! What a fair-weather friend! 1 
should hate a man if I thought he liked me only for my 
good looks or my frocks, or ” 

“ Be silent, Sophie ! ” says Nora. 

Her face is very white. She has put up her hand. 
There is a certain dignity in her air. Sophie draws 
back. 

“You say very queer things,” says Nora gently, but 
still with her face so very white. “You do not under- 
stand perhaps. And — at all events be silent! They — ■ 
they will hear you if you speak again.” 

Indeed “ they ” are just now beneath the apple tree. 


NOUA VllElNA. 


VI 

The girls sitting in the branches of it, in lieu of the 
orthodox hammocks they are not so happy as to possess, 
grow suddenly rigid. Underneath them, on the narrow 
path, are the new-comers. At that point in the path that 
brings them almost abreast of the apple tree they have 
paused — to finish an argument apparently. 

‘‘Well, I’m sure there is some truth in it,” says the 
taller of the two. 

“ Perhaps,” says his companion indifferently. 

This latter is a young man of about live feet nine or 
ten inches, with a quizzical eye. His nose is distinctly 
retrousse^ and his mouth is large. It would be impossible 
even for a girl in love with him to call him a beauty. 
He has, however, his compensations. For even the girl 
who is not in love with him would certainly declare him 
as lovable a fellow as there is alive. Denis Butler is a 
first cousin of the Carews ; and having been left by his 
defunct parents the noble income of three hundred a 
year, is living (when at home) a somewhat embarrassed, 
but wholly happy existence, in an old barn, called 
“Banks,” about two miles from Dunmore. He has 
just been called to the Bar. 

His companion is of middle height also, and a little 
taller than Denis Butler, but without the quizzical eye. 
Ills eye indeed is fraught with melancholy, and some- 
thing underneath that, that is perhaps even more 
characteristic. Some people, girls especially, think his 
glance thoughtful. It is so nice to look thoughtful! 
There are, however, a few other people who have fancied 
it speculative. There is a difference, of course. Cyril 
Ferris, in spite of his melancholy eyes, or perhaps 
because of them, is beyond all question handsome. 
Friends and foes alike admit that. 

“ Yes. Every one is talking about it,” says he, continu- 
ing his first remark as he and Denis Butler come to a 
standstill almost under the apple tree. 

“ If people didn’t talk they’d die,” says Denis con- 
temptuously. 

At this point Sophie, at the risk of her life, leans 
towards her sister. 

“ It is frightful ! ” whispers she. “ It is mean, W e can 
hear them.” 


NonA CBMKA. 


13 


“ Put your fingers in your ears,” whispers back ^^ora, 
suiting the action to the word ; and then, an after- thought 
occurring to her, ‘‘ and shut your eyes.” 

Sophie, though raging, complies with both commands. 
It is, however, impossible for any one under a Spartan 
boy to keep one’s eyes and ears shut for more than two 
minutes at a stretch, when you know that people are 
conversing under a tree about two yards from you. 
For one thing, you always want to know whether they 
have gone away, because then, of course, you need not 
stuff your fingers into your ears, or tighten up your lids 
any longer, and nobody wants to be deaf and blind 
longer than necessary. Sophie, after the regulation two 
minutes, unlocks her eyes and gives a judicious peep. 
At the same moment, she gives her ears full play. Her 
hands fall into her lap. She is now staring with all her 
might. A word or two from below has travelled up to 
her. 

In the midst of her treachery, however, she remembers 
Nora and her commands. Guiltily she glances in her 
sister’s direction to find Nora — Nora the virtuous ! — with 
both her hands clasped round a bough of the apple tree, 
and her eyes wide — very wide — open. 

Their glances meet through the leaves. “You are 
listening breathes Nora indignantly. 

“Well, so areyo2^.^” whispers back Sophie, with in- 
dignation greater still. At which, after a struggle with 
their dignity, they both give way to voiceless mirth that 
shakes the old apple tree, to their terror, though that 
staunch old friend is too good-natured to give them away. 

Meantime the voices from below grow louder. Their 
owners have come a few steps nearer to the tree. 

“ I’m positive he means business,” says Cyril Ferris, 
evidently a propos of the conversation already begun, 
before the girls’ ears had been barricaded. 

“Well — perhaps,” says Butler, who has apparently 
been led by argument to almost believe in this thing, 
whatever it is. The girls up above, though in agonies of 
dismay at being thus caught in a cul de sac as it were, 
cannot help wondering who “ he ” is, and what it is all 
about. “It would be of no consequence at all if it 
weren’t for the girls ” 


14 


NOUA CBMNA. 


‘‘The girls — ^yes,” says Ferris. He moves forward 
and proceeds to light a match on the trunk of the old 
tree. Both the girls grow livid. It is too late now to 
disclose their position, and if discovered ! Nora half un- 
consciously tightens the tail of her gown round her feet 
and tells herself that life is not worth living. Sophie, 
grows hysterical. “ If this marriage of Fell’s comes off, 
the girls will be all right I suppose?” continues Ferris, 
having now got his cigar into order ; as he says this, he 
looks at the cigar rather than at his companion. 

“How all right?” asks Butler. “They can’t get 
away from him you know. He is their guardian ; their 
mother left them to him when dying ; rather a mistake 
on her part.” 

“ Horrid mistake,” says Ferris sympathetically. “ A 
good thing they will have money of their own.” 

“ Right good ! Even though they have to wait for 
it.” 

“Wait?” 

“ Well, not so long, only until they are twenty-five; or 
until Sir Fell dies. In the meantime ” 

“ Ah ! — In the meantime ? ” 

“ They are under his guardianship unless they marry to 
please him. I’m afraid,” says Butler with a rather rueful 
laugh, “that poor suitors will have a small chance until 
that age has been reached.” 

“Ridiculous arrangement!” says Ferris, letting the 
smoke sail slowly upwards in the quiet air, and watching 
it until it gets high above his head. 

Now indeed it is high above his head; slowly, lazily 
through the branches of the apple tree it goes, and 
Ferris’s eyes, following it, catch suddenly sight of some- 
thing. 

What is it ? A glimpse of blue — the whiteness of a 
small, lovely hand grasping a branch. His eyes come 
down to mother earth instantly (though without crimi- 
nating haste), and indeed there is nothing in his pale, mel- 
ancholy face to betray to his companion or any one the 
fact of his having seen anything beyond a few green 
leaves and the fiight of his cigar-smoke heavenwards. 

“ After all,” says he calmly, though one who knew him 
might have noticed that now a touch of sentiment (hitherto 


KOBA cnmjsfA. 


15 


Out of it), has entered into his tone : Why ridiculous ? 

They are so charming that they need not think of money, 
as belonging to themselves.’^ 

“ That’s all very well,” says Butler. “ But I don’t ^ee 
why if a girl has money she should be kept out of it for- 
ever.” ^ » 

‘‘ Not forever. Only until she is twenty-five you say. 
You see, I, being only a second cousin, know nothing 
about these monetary affairs, and I am glad of it too. I 
want to know nothing. The girls in themselves are so 
delightful, that one does not even dream of money in con- 
nection with them. They don’t want it.” 

“ True ! ” says Butler heartily. 

“No matter how small or large it may be — their fortunes 
I mean.” 

“It’s small enough,” says Butler, shaking his head. 
“ I wish it was more, for the poor girls’ sakes, but five 
thousand each isn’t anything worth talking about in these 
days you know. Still it will make them a bit independ- 
ent ; and — and besides,” slowly and evidently very reluc- 
tantly, as though some hidden thought is troubling him, 
“ and besides, they may make — good marriages.” 

“ Dear fellow, the best of all marriages is the one that 
has love in it,” says Ferris, giving Butler a resounding, 
most amiable slap between his shoulders : “ Love! Love 
is a conjuror,” cries he — all his melancholy seems sud- 
denly to have taken flight. “ It will carry a man through 
most things : Give me a charming wife minus a penny, 
and I should thank the gods. What is money? Dross ! 
mere dross 1 ” 

“ Do you know,” says Butler smiling, “ I am glad now, 
to hear you talk like that.” Butler has the nicest sus- 
picion of a brogue possible ; a touch of it, that being wed- 
ded to a cultivated mind makes his voice like satin : “ I 
fancied you a fellow to whom money would, or might, 
have meant a great deal.” 

“ Ah ! that’s how one gets mistaken,” says Ferris, 
smiling. “ And so if — if this marriage of Sir Fell’s comes 
off*, it will not interfere with ” 

“No. It will not interfere with them, except with 
regard to their personal comfort for the time being.” 

“ Ah ! ” says Ferris. “ Come on, old man, perhaps 


16 NORA CBEINA. 

if we walk a little farther on, we may meet with them.” 

Perhaps. But I daresay they are up at Castle Saggart,” 
says Butler. ‘‘ However we may as well stroll about a bit, 
as nobody is at home.” 

‘‘ Sir Fell of course is not,” says Ferris, laughing. He 
tucks his arm into Butler’s and leads him along the path, 
always in a laughing fashion, and with a merry word here 
and there, until they are well out of earshot of the apple 
tree. “ Those poor girls,” says he, then suddenly, with 
the utmost sympathy, ‘‘ they won’t like a step-mother I’m 

afraid. But it won’t be for long you say ” 

“ What won’t ? ” 

“ The ending of a step-mother’s tyranny,” with a light 
laugh. “ Though of course she may turn out a swan. 
They will get their five thousand each, on their twenty- 
fifth birthday, you say that too, don’t you?” with a lan- 
guid lifting of the speculative eyes. “That can’t mean a 

very lengthened martyrdom. Miss Carew must he 

“ Nineteen,” says Butler, looking at him. 

“ A charming age. And her sister ? ” 

“ Eighteen ! ” If Butler’s tone had been surprised 
before, it is distinctly hostile now. 


CHAPTER III. 

“ Of cares and troubles, sure, we’ve all our share ; 

The finest summer isn’t always fair.” 

Sophie pushing the branches aside looks carefully down. 
The dying away of the voices as the two young men dis- 
appeared down the garden path, has reassured her. 

“ They are gone ! ” says she. She looks up at her sister. 
Something in Nora’s eyes — her whole face — something 
radiant and new and lovely startles her. “ Good gracious, 
how glad you are that they are gone ! ” says she. “ After 
all I don’t believe you really,” — pausing, and examining 
her sister’s face — “ really like him.” 

“ Don’t you ? ” says Nora. She raises herself arid draws 
a long breath. “ It was dreadful, wasn’t it ? ” says she, 
laugfing softly beneath her breath. “One could not 


mnA cnmKA. 17 

move : I feel cramped. I am sure I must look like a 
martyr.” 

“ You look as I have said, glad! ” says Sophie, who has 
not taken her eyes olf her. 

‘‘Well, I am glad,” says Nora. “Why should I not 
be? To be on thorns, for so long, and now to be released ! 
It is enough to make any one glad ! ” 

She says it all quite easily, quite lightly. And indeed 
it is the truth she speaks. She is glad ; though perhaps 
the cause of her gladness is not the one that Sophie has 
suggested. Some words are still ringing in her ears. 

“ Love ! Love is a conjuror ! Money ! What is money ? 
Dross, mere dross ! ” Oh ! how his voice had rung ! Even 
now the quiet air seems full of it. Those perfect words 
seem to resound from tree to tree. 

“We may as well get down now,” says Sophie discon- 
tentedly. 

“Wait — wait a moment,” says Nora. “ They can’t be 
gone yet. They are walking round the garden.” 

“ Perhaps they went out, at the big door,” says Sophie. 
“ I’ll look.” 

“ I’ll look too,” says Nora. They both bend forward, 
and then instantly as if struck draw back again. 

“I told you so,” says Nora. “ They are walking about 
looking at the garden.” 

“ They are looking for us ! ” says Sophie. “ Oh ! what 
can your dress matter, Nora? Do let us go down ; we 
can quite easily slip in by the iron gate, and they will 
suspect nothing.” 

“No.” She pauses. “It is only one day, after all,” 
says she, impatiently, “I suppose you can live without 
Denis for one day ! ” 

“ No, I can’t,” says Sophie promptly, impervious even 
to this insinuation. “ All the days are so frightfully dull, 
that I can’t afford to lose anything out of them. And 
Denis is the one person in Saggartmore whom I care to 
meet. I,” — looking steadily at her sister — “ am not a bit 
ashamed of liking him.” 

“ I don’t see why you should be,” says Nora, quite as 
steadily, whilst flushing faintly. “Why should one not 
like one’s friends ? And both Denis and — and Cyril — are 
our friends ! ” 


2 


18 


KOBA CUrnKA. 


“ One friend is enough for me,” says Sophie rather un- 
compromisingly. 

“ Well, that leaves the other for me,” says Nora, smil- 
ing a little sadly at her. There is a short silence, and 
then Nora, who evidently bears no ill-will, (when indeed 
did Nora ever bear ill-will?), lays her hand on her sister’s 
arm. ‘‘ Sophie,” says she, what did they mean ?” 

“When?” 

“ Just at first. ‘ He means business,’ they said ; and 
afterwards — did you hear? ‘ If this marriage of Sir Fell’s 
comes off.’ His marriage ! Good gracious, Sophie, can 
his late frequent visits to the Lacys really mean any- 
thing ? ” 

“ Those vulgar Lacys ! Why it is only a month ago 
since he forbade us to call there again, or to be intimate 
with them.” 

“No doubt, there was reason in that too, if — iy* there is 
any truth in this gossip about that woman who is stay- 
ing there; she is a cousin of the Lacys, is she not? An 
English woman : quite old. Aunt Maria says.” 

“ As old as the hills. As old as Aunt Maria herself. 
Oh ! of course it isn’t true. But yet, to forbid us to go to 
Lacy Hall, and then to go there himself as regularly as 
the day dawns? That (what was it they said?) must 
‘ mean business.’ He ” — solemnly — “ is certainly up to 
something, Nora.” 

“ He is always up to something,” says Nora gloomily. 

“ Dark ! very dark ! There is no getting at him,” says 
Sophie. “ I agree with you there.” 

“ Fancy his thinking of getting married again ! ” says 
Nora. “ Do you know, yesterday, when I was here watch- 
ing Daddledy earthing the cauliflowers, he said something 
to me about Sir Fell and that Miss Baxter.” 

“ What did he say ? ” now all eager attention. 

“ It is hardly worth repeating, only that Daddledy 
knows everything. He said first something about Sir 
Fell being well out of the w^ay these times, as he knew as 
much about gardening as a cockatoo, and then lie said : 
‘ They do say. Miss, as that Miss Baxther, up wid thim 
Lacys, is the divil an’ all for money.’ That was all, and 
if it hadn’t been Daddledy who said it, I 

“ I know — I know — go on.” 


NOnA CREINA, 


19 


There’s nothing to go on with.” 

“ Nothing? Do you mean to say you let it stop there, 
knowing Daddledy to be the finest gossip in all the 
countryside? Do you mean to say,” regarding her sister 
with distinct reproach, “ that you didn’t even ask him 
what he meant ? That you didn’t so much as drop a dis- 
paraging word of Sir Fell with a view to drawing him 
out?” 

“ I confess I didn’t,” says Nora. 

“ Tch ! ” says the younger Miss Carew, with fine com- 
tempt. I tell you what, Nora, you lost your chance. 
He was evidently brimful of information, and you chose 
to let it go by. ‘ An opportunity once lost is never to be 
regained.’ You have written that over and over again in 
your copy-book, so that there is no excuse for you.” 

“ I shall write a new edition of that copy-book and tack 
on to your truism this one : ‘ Therefore create another ! ’ 

That takes the sting out of the old one. Seriously though, 
Sophie, do you think Sir Fell means to marry that 
woman ? ” 

“ Seriously, I think it seems to point that way.” 

‘‘ To point is vulgar ? ” says Nora, sententiously, ‘^say 
what you mean. Oh ! ” — quickly — ‘‘ he canH be thinking 
of such a marriage after — after Mother. Of course I 
know we don’t remember her well^ but she was a lady at 
all events ! ” 

“Why don’t you say an Honorable?” says Sophie 
laughing. “ There, don’t mind me, I’m absurd I know, 
and of course I agree with you ! ” 

“ That is hardly a compliment,” says Nora, laughing too. 
“Well, what I mean is, having married Mother, how he 
can descend to a person of such low birth, is beyond me.” 

“People of low birth have nowadays so much money,” 
says Sophie plaintively. “ And money carries all before 
it. When one comes to look at it, Nora, what have our 
grand relations ever done for us ? Nothing ! Why Lady 
Saggaitmore is ten times as good to us as any of our own 
cousins have ever been.” 

“Oh, never mind our cousins. I don’t believe they 
know we are alive. Let us return to Miss Baxter ; she, I 
expect, is bound to interest us sooner or later, jShe knows 
we are alive, I shouldn’t wonder,” 


20 


NORA CREINA. 


“Xaturally, if she is thinking of Sir Fell. I sayj XoU ! 
Fancy o?ie thinking of Sir Fell ! ” 

“ We think of him.” 

“Pouf! yes. Because we must! And such thoughts! 
I wonder he doesn’t wither under them. But,” Sophie 
laughs, “ he is tough, tough as ‘ old J. B.’ himself. I sup- 
pose if she is rich she wants to buy his title to back up 
her shoddy respectability. Baxter ! What a name.” 

“Anything to do with the Bible man, I wonder.” 

“Very likely! She looks biblical by all accounts. 
Quite a female Patriarch ! ” 

“ Or a Croesus in petticoats. She really ought to be a 
man.” 

“ She ought indeed if she intends to tackle Sir Fell.” 

“ How I wish she was. Then she could not marry him,” 
says Xora with a sigh. “You say she is English. Yhear 
she is an American, and that her father made his pile over 
oil, or pork, or something equally delightful.” 

“ What’s in a name ? ” says Sophie, shrugging her shoul- 
ders. “ Xo doubt, to Sir Fell, Miss Baxter’s fortmie if 
possessed of any other name would smell as sweet . . . 
as sweet as oil or pork at all events, provided it was big 
enough.” 

“Sophie! you can be severe! Xo, let’s allow she is 
English anyway. Birmingham I think — or Manchester.” 

“ So be it,” says Sophie. “ W ell, it comes to this, that an 
old fool and a rich fool get married, and there remains 
then but one question to be solved that interests us. 
What is to become of the old fool’s step-children ? That’s 
a riddle. Come, answer it, Xora.” 

“ I can find but one answer,” says Xora. 

“ But one ! and have you really found one ? Oh ! clever 
girl. Well! what is it?” 

“ Perhaps ” Xora pauses. 

“ Go on. Go on.” 

“Well it seems tome that — that again Xora stops 

short. 

“ For Heaven’s sake Xora, give up those tragical pauses,” 
cries her sister impatiently. “ ‘ It seems,’ what ? ” 

“ It seems that we shall have to get married too,” says 
Xora. “Yes, we shall, Sophie, whether we hke it or not ; 


JSrOBA CllEIJS'A. 21 

and somehow I,” with a strange little glance, “ I feel that 
I — shall not.” 

‘‘ It is a long day off anyway,” says Sophie. ‘‘ Why 
worry about it until it is an actual fait accompli. Sir 
Fell is not married yet, and — ” she hesitates and looks 
at Nora. “ Keep up your courage,” says she tenderly. 

“I have none! It is so bad at home already that to 
dream of worse And a step-mother — a woman belong- 
ing to the Lacys — It carCt be true, Sophie.” 

“ It is, however,” says Sophie, “ far better to believe in 
it at once. It will save time afterwards. I never felt so 
sure of anything,, Nora, as that he is going to marry Miss 
Baxter.” 

“ And if he does ? ” 

“Well, /e^him!” says Sophie with a truly noble con- 
tempt. “ And in the meantime we can pray that she and 
her dollars^ or her Birmingham guineas, as the case may 
be, will have the effect of humanizing our Dragon ! Do 
you,” staring downwards, “ think we may embrace mother 
earth now?” 

“ I think so. I hear nothing. And I see Daddledy ap- 
proaching. He’ll tell us if they are gone.” 

“ I hope he’ll tell us they aren’t gone,” says Sophie 
fractiously. 


CHAPTER IV. 

“ O, where, Kincora! is Brian the Great ? 

And where is the beauty that once was thine ? 

O, where are the princes and nobles that sate 
At the feast in thy halls, and drank the red wine ? 

• Where, O, Kincora 

To be distinctly plump is not to be a mark for the world’s 
scorn. Sophie Carew, though plump, is certainly not a 
mark for anything but universal admiration. She is in- 
deed very much admired, perhaps even more so than her 
sister, who is, nevertheless, very much more beautiful 
than she is. To be as delicate as a summer breeze, and 
as colorless as a lily of the valley, is a beauty that doth 


22 


NOBA CBEINA. 


not commend itself to every one. Many sisters are alike. 
Most sisters have little common resemblances between 
them, but any two beings so totally dissimilar as Nora and 
Sophie Carew could hardly be imagined. Their cousin, 
Eusebius Brush, in one of his flights of poetic fancy, had 
christened them Jack Sprat and his wife, but Eusebius as 
a rule is not much attended to. 

That Sophie is plump to an almost dangerous degree 
is not to be disputed. “ Laugh and grow fat,” says the 
old proverb. And as Sophie is always laughing, what can 
she expect ? She has laughed all her young life through, 
and there is no denying that her bones are well covered. 

Her eyes are a light, soft hazel. Her fair, brown hair 
is curly ; her nose has a distinctly upward tendency; her 
mouth is beautiful. She is very pretty in an arch and 
charming fashion. The beautiful mouth seems indeed 
made for mirth. 

“ Eight seldom fell her face on weeping wise ! 

Gold hair she had, and golden colored eyes, 

Filled with clear light and fire and large repose.” 

“Daddledy! Daddledy!” whispers Nora, leaning down 
her slim, lissome figure very dangerously far, as Daddledy 
comes towards them across the grass, his spade upon his 
shoulder. 

He is a very little man, with bow legs and a bent back, 
and the sourest expression you ever yet saw on a human 
countenance. His brows are shaggy and bent, and snowed 
by age, but from underneath them peer out two small 
watchful eyes, bright as a child’s and just as curious ; 
there is, too, a touch of malice in them. Daddledy as he 
stands (a matter of five foot one) is an embodiment of ill- 
temper, discontent and general grudge. 

“ Verjuice,” says Eusebius, ‘‘ lias been his daily aliment 
since the day he Avas weaned.” And perhaps Eusebius so 
far is not altogether wrong — anathemas are always on the 
tongue of Daddledy. 

‘‘Daddledy !” says Nora again, but Daddledy does not 
hear. He comes on stolidly. 

“ He’s stone deaf,” says Nora. 

“He hears as well as you do,” says Sophie wrathfully. 

Only he won't. Be’s as bad a person as I know. Th§ 


NOBA CBEINA. 


23 


one thing that keeps me from denouncing him is the 
fact that he loathes Sir Fell.” 

“ He loathes every one,” says Xora. She makes a last 
attempt. She leans still further out of her airy nest, and 
calls once more upon the old gardener. 

And once more he remains impervious to that voice, that 
many a better man than he, in every sense of the word, 
would have rushed to answer. 

Daddledy has come to a standstill quite near them. 
His not hearing Nora’s eager whisper is therefore all the 
more remarkable. He seems lost in contemplation of the 
garden round, and a desire to hitch up his breeches. 

Certainly the garden round, though rather wild in its 
growth, is worthy of a look or two, and so perhaps Dad- 
dledy thinks. To him it is as good as his own garden, as 
he has worked in it, through rain and sunshine, for a 
little matter of fifty years. He is now seventy, and it is 
with deep regret, I add, that years have not lent him 
grace. 

It is with the air of a proprietor he glances round him. 
It is all his own work. He had planted those espalier 
apple trees there thirty years ago. Those taller trees 
standing on their own merits that line the southern walk, 
fifty years ago. The other trees, and older, were planted 
by his father, who had been gardener before him again at 
Dunmore, and who indeed had taught Daddledy his busi- 
ness, when Daddledy was only Thady Dinneen, and not 
much at that. 

Some of these old apple trees are gnarled, and bent, and 
moss-grown. These seem to have shed all their fragrant 
blossoms, whilst their younger brothers have still retained 
a delicate pale flower here and there — a pale flower tinged 
with pink. The paths, however, are covered with petals. 
Even so late as this, in the first week of lovely June, the 
apple blossoms strew the paths. 

. The walls all round this quiet garden are covered with 
drooping ivy. It falls like a shower from the top, cover- 
ing the gaunt old sides as with a garment. Long since 
the cherry and plum trees have died away, crowded out 
by this lovely ivy, and by many years of disregard, and 
carelessness, and poverty. The Anketells had been good 
people in their time, “ grand people entirely,” as the 


24 


NonA cheina. 


peasants had it, but money had died with them as time 
died too, and they had waked one morning to find them- 
selves bankrupt more or less, with no more hope of pay- 
ing their own debts than of compelling their tenants to 
pay theirs. 

They had indeed always kept open house. But that 
was at an end now. The house was open indeed. It 
threatened shortly to be open to all the winds of heaven, 
as the ceilings were falling in, and the roof — who was to 
repair that ? 

Well, the old people died, and the present man coming 
into his rights, and place, and home, found all things 
wrong. It was too late to redeem, to retrench, to sell. 
There w^as nothing for it but to live on the land and rot 
there. 

Sir Fell was a personable man then — if one utterly dull 
and commonplace, and heartless to a singular degree. 
He happened about that time to meet a young girl, one of 
the Macgillicuddys, and hearing she had twenty thousand 
pounds, deliberately, slowly, and without inclination of 
any kind, laid siege to her. She was a very young girl, 
and as she was heart-whole, and he singularly distin- 
guished in appearance, she fell an easy prey to his machina- 
tions. She died a year after the marriage, childless, mak- 
ing him thus a handsome present of her fortune. Not 
that he gained much by the transaction. He had sunk her 
money in his land, in drainages, and so forth, and so dis- 
astrously that he was never a penny the better for her 
twenty thousand pounds. 

Two years later he married again. A widow this time, 
with two little girls, mere babies. A very pretty woman, 
of high birth, and with a little money, she had ten thou- 
sand pounds. Perhaps his handsome person fascinated her 
also. At all events she accepted him, and brought her 
two little girls into the old house of Dunmore. Dying 
five years later, after a most unhappy time of it with Sir 
Fell, who was a tyrant born, she left her fortune to be 
equally divided between her two children. Sir Fell was 
to have the interest of the money until they were married ; 
after that, the money went to the children. But they 
were not to marry without Sir Fell’s consent until they 
had reached the age of twenty-five. That might mean a 


KORA CREINA. 


25 


long, long wait for a young girl in love. Doubtless the 
mother on her death-bed, urged by her husband in that 
direction and warned by experience, had thought it Avise 
to keep the children free from unhappy marriages as long 
as possible. No doubt she had done the*best for them, as 
she thought, poor thing, but she had certainly left them 
very considerably in the power of their step-father. 

* * # * * 

‘‘ Daddledy ! ” cries Nora once again in a subdued 
voice, as the old man comes now right under the tree. 

“ Aiyeh ! ” says he Avith a start. The voices coming from 
above have evidently startled him. They had Avronged 
him, he certainly had heard their first appeals. lie 
looks up in the undecided bcAvildered Avay that belongs to 
the old and the deaf, his face shining through the sun- 
shine like a ribston pippin. 

“It’s I and Miss Sophie, Daddledy,” says Nora, her 
charming face peeping at him through the leaves and 
fiowers of the tree. 

“ So ’tis ! ” says Daddledy, staring up at them. And 
then, recovering from his surprise, and falling into his 
ordinary mood (which is always full of grace) — “May the 
divil fiy aAvay wid ye, ye bould childhren,” says he. 
AYhat’s ye up therefor? Wan would think ye AA^ere in 
prison be the looks o’ ye. An’ Avorse luck it is, that ye 
aren’t. ’Tis the proper place for ye ! What’s girls good 
for, at all at all ? ” 

“ Have they gone, Daddledy ?” asks Sophie in a rather 
sorrowful tone. 

“Gone? Who? Thim tAvo boys? Fegs they have. 
An’ luck go Avid ’em. Not a ha’penny between ’em.” 

“ Really gone ? ” asks Nora. “ Then we may get down.” 
Whereupon both girls scramble from their lofty perches, 
Nora making a final rent in the old gown in the process. 

“ Which Avay did they go, Daddledy? ” 

“Out be the big gate beyant, after coorsin’ round this 
garden like greyhounds in search o’ye. Though fegs Avhat 
they sees in ye ! ” 

“Well, isn’t there plenty to see?” demands Sophie, 
who delights in an encounter with this cross old person. 
“ Come, look at us, Daddledy. Aren’t we lovely ? ” 

“ Troth I suppose that’s what you’re thinkin’ — but I 


26 


NORA C REIN A. 


could niver see a bit o’ good in girls. What are they born 
for at all, at all ? save for the plaguin’ o’ mankind.” 

“ A special mission,” says Sophie, “ and a noble one. 
I hope I shall fulfil my part of it. But seriously now, 
Daddledy, when you were young, you must have liked a 
girl or two.” 

Divil a wan ! ” says Daddledy, briefly, but eloquently. 
“ Look here,” says he, resting on his spade and regarding 
her with a small but glittering eye. “ In my opinion it’s 
girls and guano that have been the ruin of ould Ireland ! ” 

“ What/'*'' says Sophie indignantly, who is feeling 
somewhat ruffled at being placed in a category with guano. 

What do you mean, Daddledy ? ” 

What I says ! Girls,” repeats Daddledy sternly ( I 
regret to say he pronounces this word girrils), ^''and 
guano, has played ould Harry wid the foinest land in the 
worrild ! ” 

“ Nonsense ! ” angrily, ‘‘ you don’t know what you are 
talking about. Why ” 

She stops dead short. Another voice beside Daddledy’s 
is sounding through the air. It comes from the direction 
of the small iron gate. It is a raucous voice, and it calls 
on Nora. 

^ “ It is Sir Fell ! ” says the latter nervously. 


CHAPTER Y. 

“ The night is dark and dreary 
A gradh geal mo chroidhe 
And the heart that loves you weary 
A gradh geal mo chroidhe 
For every hope is blighted 
That bloomed when first we plighted 
Our troth, and were united 
A gradh geal mo chroidhe,'' 

“ You’d better pick up your dress,” says Sophie hurriedly. 
‘‘ It’s in bits^ and you know how he goes on when he gets 
the chance.” 

“ I can’t pick it all up,” says Nora desperately. “ It’s 
gone, every way. Good gracious, Sophie, stand before me 


CUMNA, 


27 


if you can ! Daddledy, you’ve got a spade or a shovel or 
something, do try to pretend you are digging at this side 
of me.” 

“ What is it ye want now ? ” asks Daddledy, sourly. 

Sir Fell’s coming ! Begin digging at this side.” They 
are standing near a ready prepared drill, and Nora stations 
herself so as to have the worst half of her old gown next 
the drill. 

“ What?” asks Daddledy again. 

‘‘ Oh ! never mind ! ” says Sophie wrathfully, and indeed 
there is no further time for developments of the situation, 
as now Sir Fell himself comes round the gooseberry 
bushes. 

‘‘You heard me calling I presume ?” says he, eyeing 
both girls with a glance as harsh as his voice. 

He is a tall, spare man, of about fifty, with a long face. 
His forehead is high, his cheeks lank, "his lips thin and a 
trifle cruel. His eyes are a washed-out blue. This seems 
a criticism that would preclude the idea of his being even 
ordinarily good-looking, yet as a fact Sir Fell Anketell is 
handsome. Handsome too, of a well-bred type, and with 
a certain air that must be called distinguished. 

“ Only just now,” says Nora, “this very moment.” 

“ Deaf, eh ? ” sneers Sir Fell. “ There is an old proverb, 
you know.” 

“There are many old proverbs,” says Sophie, stepping 
into the breach with a bland smile. To what particular 
one do you allude ? ‘ Cows far off have long horns.’ ” 

“ I’m not a cow,” says Sir Fell, darting at her a malign 
glance. “ Besides, it is a question of hearing, not seeing, 
and cows have not long ears.” 

“ True,” says Sophie thoughtfully. “ At least not so 
long as donkeys,” here Nora casts at her an agonized 
glance. “ ‘ Out of sight out of mind,’ perhaps ? ” 

“ Try again ! ” says Sir Fell, half closing his eyes in a 
fashion he has when feeling savage. “Yam not likely to 
be out of sight for some time to come.” 

“ Ah ! to l3e personal 1 that is to be rude,” says Sophie 
daringly. “ I am not rude. Well,” airily, “ a last guess. 
‘ Absence makes the heart grow fonder.’ I hope, I do 
hope I have got it this time.” 

She is looking at him with quite a heavenly innocence 


28 


]sr01tA CREmA. 


in her large eyes, but Sir Fell has lived long enough with 
her to understand the undercurrents of her mischievous 
nature. 

“ I should think you must be tired of hoping,” says he 
with his cynical smile. ‘‘I’m not going away. I fear 
there is as yet no chance for you, of growing fonder of 
w^6.” Here he transfers his gaze from Sophie to the down- 
cast Nora. Taking her in deliberately, from the small, 
sweet, dainty head, to the tattered and torn old gown, he 
at length addresses her : 

“ In rags as usual ! ” says he. His tone is withering. 
Nora’s eyes fall, and her pale face flushes, faintly, deli- 
cately : 

“ It was getting down out of this tree. Daddledy saw 
it,” stammers she, in a low, nervous tone. She glances 
anxiously at Daddledy as if imploring that ill-grained old 
man to come to her rescue. 

“ Fegs I did,” says he. “ If ye mane yer leg. But I’m 
thinkin’ that frock o’ yours was a bad job before ye de- 
cided to roost in that ould apple three.” 

“ Oh ! ” says Sophie turning a burning glance on him ; 
a glance that I’m bound to say he receives without a 
wince. 

“ So ! ” says Sir Fell, transfixing the unlucky Nora 
with a sarcastic eye. “ You have been up apple trees, 
have you ? you have torn your gown into ribbons, have 
you? you have no doubt been playing hide and seek with 
those two young men whom I saw enter this garden 
about half an hour ago.” 

“ Hide and seek — with — ^them. JYo,” says Nora, trem- 
bling with indignation and the strange fear of her step- 
father that has always overcome her in his presence, and 
has rendered her doubly hateful to him. 

“ Hoyden, and hypocrite ! ” says he contemptuously. 
“ Do you think I believe you ? I say I saw them come in 
here, those two paupers, not half an hour ago. Where 
are they now ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” says Nora. 

“ Am I to call you liar too ? ” cries he furiously. 

“ No, you are not,” says Sophie, calmly but with strength ; 
she lays her hand on Nora’s arm, and draws her a little 
behind her. “ You are,” gazing straight at Sir Fell, “to 


NOJIA CRMNA, 


29 


call her no more insulting names. Do you hear? We 
were sitting in an apple tree just now, when Denis and 
Cyril Ferris went by. We did not speak to them. Only 
that I know Daddledy,” with a scornful glance at Dad- 
dledy, who is leaning on his spade plainly enjoying him- 
self immensely, “ would rather die than do a good turn 
to any one, I should ask him to speak to the truth of 
this.” 

“ Truth ! ” repeats Sir Fell with a sneer. “ Do you 
ask me to believe that Nora’s well-known admiration for 
Cyril Ferris is so poor a thing that she could let him go 
by her without a word ? without making a sign to attract 
his attention ? No, no ! However easily he might pass 
her by, when other peoi3le — or shall we say another ? 

— is by, I feel sure she could never be so untrue to herself 
as to deny herself the pleasure of a chance word with 
him.” 

“ You ” begins Nora. She is now as white as death, 

and her little slight fragile body is trembling cruelly. 

‘‘Not a word, Nora ! ” says Sophie sharply. 

“Just one more,” says Sir Fell, who seems to enjoy 
the girl’s humiliation to the full — staring at her through 
his lowered lids, with a half-smile on his thin lips. “We 
are great at proverbs to-day, Sophie, are we not? Let 
me give you just one more, for Nora’s benefit. It is like 
yours, without application of course. To be personal, as 
you say, my dear Sophie, is to be rude. I, like you, would 
not be rude. But — now for your proverb, Nora! Are 
you listening? It is the idlest thing. ‘ One man can 
bring a man to water, but teri cannot make him drink ’ ; 
silly old proverb, isn’t it.” 

“ Come away, Nora ! ” says Sophie, slipping her arm 
into her sister’s ; she turns as she passes Sir Fell. “ Are 
you happier now? ” asks she, looking at him as if she could 
slay him. “ Has it done you good? this hurting of her 
sweet, kind, lovely nature?” 

“ My good Sophie ” 

“ I tell you this,” says she passionately, “ that a time 
will come — it is coming for all of us — when it will do you 
a lot of harm ! ” 

She is going quickly down the path with Nora, when 
her step-father calls to her to stop. 


80 


CEEINA. 


“ I have a note for you,” says he, pulling a letter out ol 
his pocket. It is from Lady Saggartmore I believe. I 
know she wants you to go up there to-morrow. And a 
word to you ; the Lacys will probably be there, with — 
with their friends. See that you are civil to them.” 

‘‘ To the Lacys ? Why,” lifting her dauntless eyes to 
his, “I thought you abhorred the Lacys. Only three 
months ago you forbid us to know them ; and I’m sure I 
don’t wonder at it, they are a vulgar set of people cer- 
tainly.” 

“ Nevertheless, attend to my words,” says Sir Fell, 
coloring angrily. “ If the Lacys and their friends speak to 
you, be as gracious to them as an unkind nature has 
made it possible to you.” 

‘‘ In spite of their vulgarity ? ” asks Sophie, who can 
be troublesome at times, and when it pleases her. 

“ You have my commands,” says Sir Fell, the dark 
flush rising to his brow, “ see that you obey them.” He 
refuses to continue the argument, a sign of defeat that 
Sophie joyfully acknowledges. She takes the letter from 
him, and she and Nora turning the corner are soon out of 
sight. They Inxve come indeed to the old summer house 
on the top of the hill, in the garden, before Nora speaks. 
Then, Oh, Sophie cries she, turning suddenly to her 
sister ; her tone is miserable, her face blanched. 

“ Never mind him. Ducky ! DorCt mind him, Nolly ! he 
is a wretch, darling, but soon we shall be twenty-five and 
then we shall go away together — we ” 

“It isn’t true, Sophie, is it? He does love me. You 
heard what he said when we were in the apple tree?” 

“Yes, I heard, Nolly darling.” 

“ That love, love was everything. Oh ! ” putting up her 
hands to her head, “ I forget what he said, but you hnow^ 
Sophie, he said love was worth all the money in the 
world.” 

“I heard him indeed,” says Sophie, who had been 
greatly impressed by Cyril’s sentiments, not having ex- 
pected them from him. She had heard, and yet in spite 
of everything her doubts of him remain. 

“ Sophie, say you think he — he — likes me better than 
any pne else.” 

“ Oh, he must ; how could it be otherwise ? ” 


NOilA CBMKA. 31 

“ That is not saying it. Why do you hesitate, Sophie ? 
/Sai/ you think he loves me best.” 

“ I do think that,” says Sophie, driven to bay. “ Yes, 
yes. It is true! Who could he prefer to you? Every- 
one is in love with you, Nora. You are the prettiest girl 
in all this country round, and the dearest and the sweet- 
est, and ” 

“I am tired of all that,’^ says Nora a little coldly. ‘‘I 
don’t care to be the prettiest and dearest and sweetest 
girl ill the world, I only want to be loved by Cyril.” 

“Well, and ” 

“ And you don’t believe he loves me ? ” 

“ Oh, Nora ! you will hate me if you go on like this. It 
is only, darling, that — that he is very poor, and you are 
poor too, and 

“ Denis is very poor, and you are very poor too, yet you 
think Denis loves you.” 

“ I only think it ; I’m not sure ; and certainly,” with a 
sigh, “ I don’t believe it will ever come to anything.” 

“ Still you believe in him.” 

“Oh! Denis is a fool,” says Sophie. “Never mind 
Denis. Come back to yourself.” 

“ I wish Cyril was a fool,” says Nora, smiling at her 
sister very faintly. 

“ If you distrust him,” begins Sophie, a little slowly, a 
little nervously, for indeed up to this, Nora has permitted 
no word against Cyril Ferris to be named before her, and 
even now 

“ I interrupts she quietly. “ I have no reason 

to distrust him. Only when things are said, Sophie — and 
you know what Sir Fell said — what he insinuated — you 
remember his words — ‘ say rather when a person is by,’ — 
who did he mean ? ” 

“Darling Nolly, why dwell on his horrid words ? ” 

“He meant Mrs. Vancourt.” 

“ Did he ? ” Poor Sophie is at her wits’ end. 

“You know he did,” with a little frown. “Are 
going to pretend to me, Sophie ? Has it gone so far as 
that ? Is all the world pretending ? Is he pretend- 
ing ? ” 

She stops dead short and covers her eyes with her 
hands. 


32 


NOltA CBEINA. 


Sophie, throwing her arms round her, kisses the hacks 
of the little hands tenderly. 

“ Could you — could you give him up ? ” whispers she, 
as if half afraid. Nora, rousing herself, shakes her off. 

“ Ah ! I am wrong,” says she, “ I should not have spoken 
to you or any one ab^out him. You think I distrust him — • 
that he is to be distrusted, but I will not believe it. Why 
only an hour ago I had proof of his truth. I — I was 
frightened, I think, when I even seemed to doubt him. 
Sir Fell,” she looks appealingly at her sister, “ Sir Fell is 
enough to upset any one’s judgment,” says she, with a 
forced smile. 

“ He is enough to make any one contemplate with cheer- 
fulness the crime oi murder ! ” says Sophie gloomily. 

# * * * * 

Meantime Sir Fell, left alone with Daddledy, proceeds 
to cross-examine that genial old person. 

“ Beyond doubt,” says Sir Fell, “ they were here.” 

‘‘Miss Nora, an’ ” 

“Tut! No.” 

“Who, thin?” 

“ Mr. Butler and Mr. Ferris.” 

“ Were they now ? ” 

“You must have seen them; they passed from the 
small iron gate up this way.” 

“ Faix, ’twas a nice walk too.” 

“ You saw them ? ” 

“ Divil a see.” 

“ Look here Daddledy, you had better be straightforward 
with meP 

“ It’s well to be straightforward always.” 

“ As I say. Now will you keep your eye from this day 
forth on Mr. Ferris, and report to me when he comes 
here ? ” 

“Me? is it? An’ for what, ava? Faix I'm thinkin’ 
’tis a detective ye want.” 

“ Take care what you are saying, Daddledy.” 

“ Fegs, I’m thinkin’ ’tis you who ought to take care. Is 
it callin’ me informer ye are, in me dacent ould age?” 

“ I am only asking you to do your duty.” 

“ ’Tis no me duty, and I’ll not do it, and I tell you this, 
Masther, ye’d betther take heed to thim childhren.” 


NOHA CREINA. S3 

“What do you mean by that?” demands Sir Fell 
sharply. 

“ I mane that you’ve got money belongin’ to ’em, and 
that things will be required of ye.” 

“Things — ” frowning, things?” 

“ Faix, frocks be wan thing,” says Daddledy bluntly. 
“ Miss Nora ye said yerself is in rags ; what the devil do 
ye mane, man, be holdin’ back their coppers from ’em an’ 
lettin’ ’em bring disgrace upon the ould name. Och! 
murther ! ’Tis long before your father — rest his sowl — 
would have done the like ! ” 

“Go on with your work!” says Sir Fell indignantly. 
“ This insolence shall be punished. Who are you, who 
dare so to dictate to me ? ” 

“ Give her a frock ! give her a frock ! ” growls old Dad- 
dledy, shaking his head and shouldering his spade, and 
going leisurely down the path. He has been threatened 
with dismissal so often that he has ceased to think 
about it. 


CHAPTER VI. 

“ When comes the day, all hearts to weigh 
If staunch they be or vile.” 

To-day is lovely. There was a threatening of rain last 
night, but all that has come to nothing. It is now four 
o’clock, and still the sky is cloudless, the sun as hot as 
ever. It tires one’s eyes even to look at it. Up here at 
Castle Saggart it is so hot that they have had to throw 
thin linen sheets over the conservatories. 

“ Yet if we put it in the papers they wouldn’t believe 
us,” says Mr. Butler, raising himself lazily on his elbow, 
as much to emphasize his words as to brush away the 
midges that are feasting heavily upon him. 

“ They would, if we didn’t chance to live in Ireland,” 
says Eusebius Brush, quite as lazily. “ But Ireland, ac- 
cording to all acknowledged reports, is one broad swamp. 
Still,” drawing a sigh through his cigarette and sending 

a 


34 


NOItA ChmNA. 


the smoke heavenward through the branches of the tree 
above his head, “ we’re happy ! ” 

And truly, whether in Ireland or in Arcadia, it would 
be impossible to be anything but happy to-day, unless 
one’s heart lies low. So clear is the air, so sweet the leafy 
boughs. From over there — beyond the shrubberies — 
comes the scent of the clover, and at the other side from 
a distant meadow one gets the nods of the tall white dai- 
sies bowing, and bowing ever in their golden courtesy. 

There is, too, the tremulous, sorrowful music of the 
streams, running idly, vaguely somewhere — (who cares to 
know where — who cares to limit them ? ), and above, a bird 
is singing madly in the clear soft sky. 

“ Only fools are happy,” says his mother tartly. 

Mrs. Brusli — a sister of Sir Fell’s, and the owner of a 
big, square, hideously ugly house, situated about two 
miles to the north side of Saggartmore village — is a tall, 
lanky woman. She is a most distinct but unflattering 
likeness of Sir Fell, and having known Nora and Sophie 
from the time they were five and six respectively, has 
always been called by them Aunt Maria, even to the pres- 
ent day. Anyone so gaunt as Mrs. Brush has seldom 
been seen. She is the thinnest person alive. However, 
not wishing to be assailed on this point, 'let us say that 
she is beyond all doubt the secoiid thinnest woman on 
record. 

Then I’m a happy fool,” says Eusebius tranquilly. 

If his mother is thin, Eusebius is fat. Dangerously 
fat. That hideous word stout could not express him. 
He is six foot four, if an inch, and large in proportion 
He is indeed a giant. A greater contrast than he and his 
mother present, in all ways, could hardly be produced. 

a very bare-bones, Ae so excellently covered. She, 
sour as an apple that never came to perfection, he, lazy, 
easy-going, and framed for mirth. Lying here now, 
beneath this wide branching tree, he looks almost colossal, 
as he reclines full length, watching the tennis players 
beyond. Lady Saggartmore is at home to-day, and is 
entertaining the best portion of the country round. 

“ The fool is never happy ! ” says his mother in the 
sepulchral tone that always reduces Nora to powder 
“ However much he may flatter himself about it. Bettel 


JSrOBA CEEINA. 


35 


be dead than a fool ! ” She stares into space as though 
seeing something over there in the ivied wall close to 
the conservatory, hidden from the sight of ordinary 
mortals. 

“You favor my case,” says Eusebius sleepily. “I 
must be a fool indeed, for I’d far rather be a fool than 
dead. ” 

“ Eusebius ! Don’t blaspheme ! ” says his mother, where- 
upon Eusebius gives way to mirth. 

And now there is a little stir behind them — some one is 
coming this way — some one who is talking and laughing 
all along the route. It is Lady Saggartmore, a tall, large, 
handsome woman of about twenty-nine or so, with a fair 
soft face, and the kindest nature in Christendom. 

“Oh! here you are, Eusebius !” says she. “I have 
been looking for you everywhere. I know you detest 
tennis, but I want you to come and make up a set for me. 
Saggartmore has been carried off by two policemen.” 

“ Good heavens ! I am sorry,” says Eusebius, getting 
as quickly as he can to his feet — which would be a slow 
process for any other man. “ What is it ? Not petty 
larceny I hope ? ” 

says Lady Saggartmore. “ Nothing half so 
amusing as that. You needn’t hope for it. It appears 
one of our tenants has got into trouble over something or 
other, and Saggartmore has gone down to the police court 
to see if he can’t get him off.” 

“ Who was it ? Dempsey ? ” 

“ Oh, of course,” shrugging her handsome shoulders. 
“ It is always Dempsey, but Saggartmore will believe in 
him, and,” smiling her broad, beautiful smile that has 
bought for her the love of all the peasants round, “ I don’t 
know but he is right. However, in the meantime I want 
our friends to enjoy themselves, and I see one of the courts 
empty. Will you ” 

“ Boss this show ? Certainly 1 ” says Eusebius. “ And 
to begin ? ” 

“ Well ; get Nora to play with Mr. Carnegie,” says Lady 
Saggartmore, who, besides being a kind woman, is a born 
match-maker. 

“P^ that well?” asks Eusebius. “Have you con- 
sidered the feelings of ” 


NORA CREINA, 


:;(3 


‘‘Yes yes yes,” said Lady Saggartmore, interrupting 
him without so much as one comma. “ And I assure you 
I think he will do very well. He will survive it.” 

Eusebius looks at her. Like all big men, he has a Ions*, 
slow, sort of look. 

“I think so too,” says he. ‘‘Yes, I agree with you.” 

“ Mr. Carnegie is over there,” says Lady Saggartmore, 
pointing carefully to the court beyond, where some 
people are standing watching the players. “ Do manage 
it,” says she, giving him a last imperative glance, as she 
turns aside to make herself charming to some fresh- 
coming guests. 

***** 

Eusebius having achieved his object— having, that is, 
compelled a distinctly unwilling Nora to commence a 
game, with an even more distinctlv willing partner — re- 
turns to his lounge under the big'^tree. Mrs. Brush has 
been mercifully taken away by som.ebody, and her seat is 
now occupied by a small, slim, fashionable-looking little 
creature, Avho seems all shrugs, and smiles, and lace. It 
would be foolish to deny that Mrs. Vancourtis pretty, but 
her prettiness is of a sort. 

She seems too delicate a being to last — to endure the 
wear and tear of existence. Like Nora (whom, alas ! she 
has chosen to rival), she is tiny as a fairy, and so fragile, 
that one wonders at the life within her. She is, indeed, 
all life ! Her rather pale blue eyes sparkle with it, her 
laugh rings sweet with it, her pretty fluffy hair is full of 
it. It is red hair, but beautiful for all that — or perhaps 
beautiful because of that. 

Many minds ; many opinions. 

“Ah! Mr. Brush . . . we meet !” says she, holding 
out her hand to Eusebius. She gives him a little beaming 
smile as she does so, half closing her lids. It is the smile 
she gives to her male acquaintances, when first she knows 
them ; she reserves a better for later on. 

“ Why, so we do,” says Eusebius enthusiastically. He 
takes her tiny, exquisitely gloved hand in his large one, 
and holds it gently for a second or so. “ What lucky wave 
has drifted you here ? ” 

“Why, I know this is your favorite resort,” says she, 
now showing her beautiful white teeth, and speaking in a 


NORA CEEINA. 37 

tone as innocent as a child’s might be, and as (apparently) 
devoid of any arriere pensee^ whatsoever. 

“You are too good,” says Eusebius, with effusion. 

“ Oh, 

“Not too good?” questions he, with his genial smile, 
now somewhat accentuated. Nora is a favorite of his, and 
he has felt of late that Mrs. Yancourt’s influence over 
Cyril Ferris — an influence that he knows this rich young 
widow is strengthening with all her might — is hardly for 
Nora’s good. The contest has seemed unfair to “ Euse- 
bius the Slow,” as his friends call him. Nora, with only 
her loveliness of soul and body, is no match for Eldon 
Vancourt, with her loveliness of body only. 

“ Oh ! I’m good enough ! ” says she, “ for that matter — 
if not too good. The too good people are always put un- 
der ground. I feel sure I am the original of Wordsworth’s 
poem — an original dreamt^ however, by that queer old 
man: 

* A creature not too bright or good, 

For human natm-e’s daily food.’ 

You remember it ? ” swaying her little body in the direc- 
tion of Eusebius. 

“ I have glimmerings,” says that giant. “ Do you want 
me to take you for my daily food ? ” 

“Ah! I should only make a mouthful,” says she, at 
which they all laugh . 

“ Fee-Faw-Fum — is that my name ? ” asks Eusebius, 
laughing too, in his slow, easy fashion. 

“ It sounds like it,” says Denis Butler, who has been 
gazing towards the lower walk — for the past half hour, as if 
expecting somebody. “You oughtn’t to have grown so 
much. Brush — it militates against you.” 

“ I’m sorry ! ” says Eusebius. “ I wish I had thought 
about it sooner. I should have condensed myself like the 
Swiss milk.” 

“ I say — we ought to do something,” says Denis, rising 
to his feet. He is evidently growing restless. 

“ Rounders?” suggests Mrs. Yancourt, who doesn’t play 
tennis, and who always finds in rounders a chance of show- 
ing off her charming feet, clad in their pretty French shoes. 

“By all means,” says Eusebius. “An excellent idea. 


C8 


NORA CREINA. 


And iliere,” nodding his head towards a distant walk, 
‘‘ comes Peter Kinsella.” 

‘‘Oh! no, not that awful man,” says Mrs. Vancourt 
piteously. “ I couldn’t — I really couldn’t.” 

“ Poor old Peter ; I like him,” says Butler. 

“ His father even more,” says Eusebius, laughing. Euse- 
bius is always laughing. 

“ Oh! Ills father / ” says Mrs. Yancourt. She puts up 
her hands and makes a faint grimace. Her brilliant hair 
seems to stir. “ Anyway, shall we have a game of round- 
ers ? ” says she. 

“ No, thanks. Not with Brush,” says Butler, who, after 
all, has his own reasons for wishing to shake himself free, 
and who is perhaps less afraid of Eusebius as an adversa- 
ry at rounders, than of missing somebody. “ The last time 
I played that game with him, I shan’t forget in a hurry. 
He sent the ball about a mile away, into the very middle 
of a laurel thicket, and I was the one who had to unearth 
it, and throw it back. It is there still. I alone came back, 
and the abuse . ... .! No — it isn’t worth it ! ” 

His eyes are still wandering idly, longingly, up and 
down that distant walk. Presently they lighten. 

“ Ah ! there is Sophie,” says he, involuntarily. 

Mrs. Yancourt bursts out laughing. Eusebius joins 
her. But then his laugh is so kindly. He brings his 
hand down on Butler’s shoulder in a massive sort of 
way. 

“ Why — she’s been here for half an hour,” says he. “ I 
have only just come back from arranging a game with 
Nora and Carnegie, against two others.” 

“ I think you might have told me,” says Butler, casting 
an indignant glance at him when they have walked away 
together out of hearing of the others. 

“Why? . . . You looked so comfortable that I 
thought ” 

“ I thought she was late,” says Denis. “ So late, that 
I feared she wasn’t coming. I walked a dozen times to 
the small gateway over there, and then gave up hope. 
You, knowing how it is with me, might have given me a 
word.” 

“ Explanations waste time,” says Eusebius, good- 
naturedly. “ Run, dear boy, run,” giving him a gentle 


NOB A CREINA. 


39 


push. “ I expect you will have to do the explanations now ; 
go, and waste your time.” 

‘‘How he gives himself away,” says Mrs. Vancourt, 
leaning back in her seat. She is choking with laughter, 
and is pressing a delicate little lace handkerchief to her 
lips. 

“ Men are fools ! ” agrees Eusebius delightfully. “ I 
often wonder how you women even so much as look at us. 
There’s Sophie Carew, quite an ordinary sort of girl ” 

“ Quite — quite 

“And yet this silly fellow of ours, who has just left us, 
regards her as the last new edition of Yenus. And there’s 
her sister, some one thinks her a Yenus too ! — to give 
another instance. Though,” pausing and looking at her, 
“ instances are unnecessary, don’t you think ? ” 

“ I do. Go on,” says she quickly. She leans forward. 
“ Go on,” says she. 

“Well — her sister, you know — Miss Carew — cousin of 
mine, you know, in a way ” 

“ Yes, I know. ‘ In a %oay!^ Are you in love with her 
too ? — that skinny little thing ! ” She recovers herself 
almost immediately — yet the late touch of passion shows 
itself in the constrained smile, the quick breathing. “ Yes, 
of course I know,” she says airily. “ Cousins are always 
so interesting. Well — go on ! ” 

“ About what ? ” asks Eusebius, “ about Sophie’s sister, 
wasn’t it ? About Nora. Nora is charming, isn’t she ? ” 

“Ah, I said you were in love with her,” says Mrs. 
Yancourt. She clasps her arms over her knees, and 
smiles brightly. She looks as if she would encourage him 
in this thought of hers. 

“ Did you ? I wish it were true,” says Eusebius. “ I 
should really like to be in love I think. Yariety, they say, 
is charming. But you would not have me unhappy, 
would you? And, certainly, Nora is not in love with 
me.” 

“No?” 

“ Nor I with her.” 

“ Then who is ? ” demands she quickly. 

“ Did I say any one was ? ” 

“ You suggested the thought. You said there was some 
one who regarded her as a Yenus ! What a thought! ” 


40 


NORA CREINA. 


She leans back and laughs, but in a rather suffocated sort 
of way. “ Tell me who it was,” says she. 

“ Well,” says he deliberately, “ I heard it was Ferris ” 

“ Ferris? Cyril Ferris !” Her little sharp face lights 
somewhat viciously ; she leans forward and taps furiously 
against the edge of her chair. ‘‘ W/iat a lie ! ” she says. 

Eusebius smiles. He would have liked to laugh, but 
that delight he feels is forbidden him on this occasion. 

“No doubt,” says he, equably. “Report is a liar — at 
the top of his profession.” 

“ How rude of me — how — how unpardonable ! ” says 
Mrs. Yancourt, sweetly, who has now recovered herself 
and is anxious to cover up her sudden little burst of 
wrath. “Whai a hetise! But you see I know Cyril 
Ferris very well, we were great friends when . . . 
before . . . the death of my poor husband, and, I 

can’t bear to hear him . . . .” she hesitates. 

“ Maligned?” suggests Eusebius, grimly. 

“ Well — hardly that, you know. But accused of being 
a — well — a flirt. That’s a horrid word, except when ap- 
plied to a woman, eh ? ” 

“There are men” — ^begins Eusebius — “Well, and you 

don’t thiiik he is a we won’t mention the horrid 

word.” 

“ No. No, indeed. I, who am such a friend of his, I 
should knoro. But I confess he has a kind little way with 
women, especially with girls, that often misleads them. 

You should tell this to By-the-bye, you are a friend 

of hers ? ” 

“ Of whose ? ” 

“ Of Miss Carew’s.” 

“ Certainly a friend.” 

“ Then you might hint to her what I have just hinted 
to you — about poor dear Cyril’s ridiculous kindliness of 
heart and manner, that has so often led to misconceptions. 
Several times, even during the life of poor Mr. Yancourt, 
I have got him out of little scrapes — little unimportant 
scrapes, you will understand. You icill explain to her ?” 

“ 1 am afraid not,” says Eusebius, with the i^leasantest 
nod at her. “ You see I never take hints, therefore I can 
never give hints. Stupid of me, isn’t it ? ” 

“ Yet, if you are her friend, as you,” with a soft sneer. 


NORA CREINA, 


41 


“ hinted^ a while since, you ought to help her to see her 
way about in this complication: she is so charming that,” 
sweetly, ‘‘ it seems a pity that she should so — so ” 

“ Give herself away,” suggests Eusebius. “ That is a 
pet phrase of yours, isn’t it ? As an admirer of yours I 
copy it now. Imitation, you know, is the sincerest form 
of flattery. Many people give themselves away, don’t you 
think ? ” 

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” says she coldly. “ How dull 
it is here, isn’t it? Oh! Mr. Kinsella! Yes! Yes ; I 
shall like to go and look at the swans feeding.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

“ When, like the rising day, 

' Eileen Aroon ! 

Love sends his early ray, 

Eileen Aroon ! 

What makes his dawning glow. 

Changeless through joy or woe ? 

Only the constant know 

Eileen Aroon. 

The day now is at its height. The tennis players are 
flagging. Above them the blazing sun is glaring, staring, 
subduing them with his heat. Men in flannels, girls in 
pretty bodices and delightful skirts, pale blue and dark, 
and great broad-brimmed hats, trimmed delicately with 
chiffon and colored flowers, are playing desperately, if 
languidly, as if in despite of the deadly rays that old Sol 
is pouring down upon them. 

Nora Carew, who has just flnished her game, and won 
it — more through her partner’s play than hers, however 
— is now standing on one of the gravelled walks, this skil- 
ful partner beside her. 

St. John Carnegie is a tall man of about four or five and 
thirty. There is so little to describe about him, that it 
seems hardly worth while to go into it, yet a few words 
must be said. His irregular features are in a measure 
compensated for by his t^all and handsome figure, and his 


42 


NORA C REIN A. 


manner is beyond reproach. Very young girls, without 
exception, call him ugly. Some women have, however, 
considered him handsome. Beauty, as we all know, is in 
the eye of the beholder ; and, at all events, no matter how 
it goes with Carnegie, one thing stands constant, nobody 
ever thought he looked anything but a gentleman. 

His earnest face is full of life now, as he speaks to Nora 
Carew, but that wilful child’s eyes, being anywhere but 
on his, fail to see the depth of his regard. And now a 
little obstruction occurs. Some people come down the 
walk. There is a fresh shuffling of the cards, and Nora 
finds herself separated from Carnegie, and face to face 
with Ferris. 

“ Come for a walk with me,” says he, in a rather dicta- 
torial tone — a tone, however, that is sweet to the girl, 
being, as it is, proprietory. He has come up to her in a 
masterful way, with a slight frown on his handsome brow, 
and a glance that covers her with reproach. He had seen 
her play out that game of tennis with Carnegie ; he had 
heard of late half-laughing innuendoes of the latter’s con- 
stant attentions to Nora, and to-day has brought the truth 
of those idle reports home to him. Carnegie’s open honest 
admiration for the charming, slight, pretty creature has 
whetted Ferris’ own desire for her, and there is now dis- 
tinct jealousy in his whole air as he addresses her. 

Ferris had been designed for the army from early age. 
His father had been a colonel in a distinguished corps, 
and the boy was always brought up to believe he should 
follow in his father’s steps. But Colonel Ferris had died 
(when his son was only fourteen), so encumbered with 
debts of all kinds, that his widow had to make a struggle 
for even bare existence. There had been a bitter giving 
up of most things, and of those the bitterest was the 
thought that the boy could never now enter the army. 

It was, perhaps, the last straw, when a friend came for- 
ward and offered to place him in a house of business. It 
was a house so distinguished that many young men of 
even better family than Ferris would have accepted the 
offer with gratitude, but Mrs. Ferris, who was a Baronet’s 
daughter, and as near an approach to an idiot as society 
will admit in its rooms, refused the offer. She died 
shortly afterwards^ leaving Ferris, with a bare four- 


NOBA CREINA. 


43 


hundred a year, no profession, the most expensive tastes, 
and a ravenous appetite for all the extravagances that 
the world affords. 

Lady Saggartmore (who is a cousin of his), had taken 
him up then, and done what she could for him. She had 
got him several posts, but (it was never his own fault, 
somehow) he had always been compelled to throw them 
up. He spends a good deal of his time now at Saggart- 
more, in spite of that, and the fact that Lady Saggart- 
more (a fact concealed, however) regards him with a 
certain contem]3t. Still, a handsome young cousin, with 
a distinguished appearance, a reputation for being one of 
the best theatrical amateurs extant — a good shot — and a 
str^iight man to hounds (Saggartmore likes a man who 
rides well, and is always willing to mount him) — such a 
young man as this always counts in country houses, and 
is by no means to be despised, if even his income is a thing 
of naught. 

Lady Saggartmore, therefore, if indifferent to him as 
an individual, is always willing to have him in her house, 
when at home — and this year, owing to the illness of one 
of her two adored little sons, she has missed her season 
in town. The little fellow, though now out of danger, is 
still too weak to permit of his moving ; the crossing from 
Kingstown to Holyhead might prove too much for him, 
says the local doctor, a tall, fair man, with a kind eye, 
and a manner that gives hope to the anxious watcher in 
the sick room, so that Lady Saggartmore has abandoned 
her hope of town life for this year, much to the delight of 
her husband, who is always a little out of it, as it were, 
when removed from his “ fresh fields and pastures new.” 

The little man being on the fair road to perfect health 
again, though scarcely fit to travel. Lady Saggartmore has 
elected to drag amusement out of the people round her. She 
has indeed made open house, of late, asking her neighbors to 
come to her as often as possible for tennis, rounders — and 
so on. Just now there is a little talk of theatricals and a 
dance afterwards. 

There is a kinship between the Saggartmores and the 
Carews, the late Lady Anketell having been a cousin of 
Lady Saggartmore’s, so that Cyril, who is kin to both, 
claims cousinship with the Carew girls also. 


44 


NOtlA CUMnA. 


It is now growing towards the end of June, but it was 
in March last that Ferris (then too staying at the Castle) 
had met ISTora Carew, and had fallen in love with her. It 
was, perhaps, the one honest love of his life ; and the girl 
had responded to it. Many words had been said on both 
sides, and Ferris had gone back to England with a some- 
what uneasy conscience. Many words had been said, and 
once he had kissed her — but did he mean anything? lie 
grew impatient when he asked himself that question — the 
girl’s small, lovely, flower-like face rose always before him, 
full of its trust and sweetness, and yet! there was no 
money anywhere! Was he to sacriflce himself, or give 
her up ? He hardly knew what he meant. 

And now he has come back again, and Nora is, if pos- 
sible, even a little lovelier. And — and yet to live, to en- 
dure life without money ! How is that to be done ? And, 

besides, there is some one else now with money, and 

But to give up Nora — to resign her ! The small, poor 
soul that was given to him at his birth is torn in two. 

As for Nora! That she believes herself engaged to him 
is beyond all doubt. The poor child’s belief in that^ is as 
strong as her faith in Heaven — ^the good, kind Heaven, 
that is going to grant her all her desires. That first, 
only, sweet, perfect kiss had decided that. There was 
indeed but one sad drop in her cup of joy; when he left 
her, last March, he would not let her tell Sophie of her 
happiness : he had forbidden her, indeed, to speak of it to 
any one ; and it would have been so good* to talk it all 
over with Sophie — just the iwqyq fact of the engagement ; 
of course, there were loving words said, and tender 
glances given, and that one beloved kiss, that must for- 
ever remain sacred to her own heart alone. 

There was no doubt in her young mind. That they, 
she and he, should ultimately get married, when all the 
troublesome webs of life were swept out of their paths, 
and live happy ever after, was sure to her. Whilst he, 
though as much in love with her as his shallow nature 
would permit, was permitting himself doubts as to their 
future lives, even whilst caressing the small, sweet head, 
and the dainty hands. 

It had never occurred to him to stand up and defy Fate, 
to stretch out strong arms and grasp life, and wring from 


yokA cnmyA. 


45 


it hope and purpose and certainty — all he could do was 
to rail at it, and call himself injured, because the Heavens 
had not rained down upon him quails and manna, and 
flung into his idle lap a fortune ready made, that would 
have enabled him to wed this one, small, lovely creature, 
who of all Earth’s daughters seems most fair to him. 

That she might know suffering because of him, did not 
come home to him then, or now, or ever ; all he felt or 
knew was, that he might suffer. 


CHAPTER VHL 

“ She is too kind and fond, 

Ever to grieve me ; 

She has too pure a heart, 

E’er to deceive me. 

Were I Tyrconnell’s chief. 

Or Desmond’s earl, 

Life would be dark, wanting 
Jfaire, my girl I ” 

‘‘ Come ! ” says he again. 

Nora flushes delicately. 

I don’t know if I can,” says she ; her tone is nervous, 
and she glances with apprehension round her. “ Sir Fell 
— you know, he makes me unhappy always — and, to-day, 
he has forbidden me to speak to you.” 

“Tom^.^” 

“Oh! donH be angry,” says she, miserably. “You 
know, it is only because ” 

“ I have no money,” supplies he, as she hesitates. “ I 
am not a desirable suitor ! I can quite see that myself. 
There ’’—regarding her frowningly — “is another suitor 
more desirable, perhaps ” 

“ There is no other suitor so far as I am concerned,” 

says she. “It is only that he has Well— I think” — 

piteously — “ he has taken a dislike to you.” 

“ It comes to the same thing,” says he. “ One can meas- 
ure the dislike. A few months ago Sir Fell was civil 


46 


koha cueina. 


enough to me, but now There is another in the 

field ” 

don’t understand you,” says the slowly. She has 
grown a little pale, but very calm besides. The slight 
touch of emotion that had characterized her just now has 
disappeared. She has grown very quiet. Pier manner 
indeed is always so reserved, as to give her acquaintances 
the impression of coldness. “ What should Sir Fell know 

of you and me? It is only that he ” She pauses, 

and puts out her hand involuntarily as if seeking aid 
where indeed no aid is — ‘‘ wants me lo marry Mr. Car- 
negie.” 

“ And yet you say,” says he, in a choking tone, “ that 
there is nothing between you and ” 

“ There is nothing. P'or my own part,” hurriedly, “ I 
don’t believe Mr. Carnegie wishes to marry me, but Sir 
Fell imagines otherwise.” 

“ Oh ! if it comes to that,” says Ferris roughly, “ the 
sooner I bid you a final farewell the better.” 

“Why?” asks Nora steadily, though her lips have 
grown a little pale. “ I have told you that Mr. Carnegie 
thinks as little of me, as I do of him, but ” 

“ But,” bitterly, “ your step-father thinks otherwise, is 
that it ? ” 

“ No. Hardly that. Cyril,” nervously, “ do you know 

that Sophie has a theory 1 — I hope it isn’t true, but 

she says that Sir Fell knows we cannot marry without 
his permission until we are both twenty-five, and that 
therefore he will welcome any chance of refusing his per- 
mission until then.” 

“ There would be no chance for him to refuse permis- 
sion for your marriage with Carnegie.” 

“No. But — I should refuse then — and perhaps he 
knows that. At least, Sophie thinks ” 

“ Sophie thinks what ? ” 

“ That Sir Fell will keep the interest of our money as 
long as he can.” 

“ Sophie is an oracle,” says Ferris ; he laughs curiously, 
as if failing to enjoy his own mirth. “ Well — it will come 
to that, I suppose.” 

“ What will come ? ” 

“ Our final separation,” gloomily ; “ you would not be 
sorry for that.” 


jsroTtA cnmNA. 


47 


‘‘ That is a speech from yon,” says the girl, “ that I do 
not — that I will not understand.” She glances at him, a 
little, soft, quick glance, that lets him see the sad mist 
that is softening her already too soft eyes. “You must 
know, Cyril, what I mean.” 

“ What you mean,” moodily, perhaps ! There is in- 
sult almost in the doubt. “ But with regard to Sir Fell, 
where does the doubt come in? Sophie has explained 
him, and I fail to see why you should so entirely give in 
to him. You say you fear to go for a walk with me ! He 
is not your father — and even if he he could not turn 

you out of doors, I presume, or starve you to death, in 
the good old style — or beat you — or ” 

“ Oh no ! ” says Nora sighing ; perhaps she would have 
preferred the good old style ; then one’s lover took one 
out of an upper window, and carried one away willingly 
on his horse, pillion- wise. “ Oh, no,” says she. “ But — 
he could make a scene ! ” 

It is such a terrible climb down from the window and 
the pillion. In the old, dark days, nobody cared anything 
about a scene. In fact, the more scene there was, the 
better, but now ! . . . 

“ What scene ? ” 

“Well. He threatened me Avith one this morning. 

He said if he saw you playing the that is,” stopping 

dead short and coloring violently. “ If he saw you mak- 
ing yourself even agreeable to me, he would take me home, 
before everybody.” 

“ He is as nice a man as I know,” says Ferris, with, an 
unmirthful laugh. “ He has an idea then that I — that 
you ” 

“That I love you? Yes,” says Nora, softly. “1 am 
afraid he guesses something, though I have never said 
any tiling. Not even to Sophie ” 

“ Something must have been said.” 

“Not by me, at all events,” a little haughtily. 

“ I am not thinking that,” quickly. He pauses, looking 
at her, and as if angered at finding himself placed in the 
wrong even in so small a way, he turns upon her instantly. 
“ I am tliinking only,” says he, in an aggrieved fashion, 
“that rather than endure a little discomfort, you would 
give up my society for the rest of the afternoon.” 


48 


NOltA CnmJSTA. 


Nora’s eyes grow dark — there is pain in them. 

“ It was of you I thought,” says she. Of you. You 
would not like a scene.” 

“ That is one way of putting it,” says he moodily, who 
in truth would not have given himself one second’s discom- 
fort to oblige anybody. That he is in love with her to the 
final extent that his nature will allow, is beyond question 
— hut that does not carry him far ; not far at all events 
from that centre of the universe to him — namely Cyril 
Ferris ! 

She has touched him certainly, as no woman in all his 
life has ever touched him before, or ever does afterwards, 
hut then to marry on nothing but love, or on next to 
nothing — on a beggarly four hundred a year, that barely 
suffices to keep his own body and soul together, and buy 
his gloves and cigars, and an opera box or two in the 
season ! No. It is not good enough. It would hardly 
support him and another, and certainly not such a standing 
item as a wife. 

That Nora will have five thousand pounds on her twenty- 
fifth birthday has become known to him of late, but what 
is five thousand pounds ? a mere drop in the ocean — and 
there are other chances — there is certainly one immediate 
other chance, that would put him on his legs at once — 
and for life. 

Yet whatever heart he has, clings to the girl ; in her he 
finds his chiefest, purest joy. Yet always with a secret 
knowledge that the joy is but for the moment. It will 
end, surely, if not swiftly, and, with a selfishness the most 
execrable, he abandons himself to it, with no thought of 
the anguish he is preparing for the young sweetheart that 
loves him. 

He lifts his head and looks round him. 

“ Sir Fell is not here now,” says he, ‘‘come up to the 
laurel walk with me.” 


NOMA ORMINA. 


49 


CHAPTER IX. 

It is not that thy smile is sweet 
And soft thy voice of song — 

It is not that thou fliest to meet 
My comings lone and long ! , 

But that doth rest beneath thy breast 
A heart of purest core 
Whose pulse is known to me alone 
Brigliidin ban mo stor,'^ 

“ If you think it safe,” says Xora hesitating. 

‘‘ Of course if you don’t want to come, that makes all the 
dilference. Don’t bore yourself, to please me. If,” his 
blue eyes flashing, ‘‘ you would prefer to stay here and 
continue your flirtation with Carnegie, say so.” 

I was not flirting with Mr. Carnegie,” coldly. I,” 
regarding him with a certain meaning, and with a little 
gentle emphasis, “ never flirt.” 

Don’t you ? For all that, Carnegie is better worth 
cultivating than I am. He has money. I am a pau- 
per.” 

“It is nothing to me,” says Xora proudly, though 
secretly wincing at this suspicion, and the paltriness of 
her idol — “whether Mr. Carnegie is rich or otherwise. 
It is nothing to me also — ” with a droop of her head, and 
a sad but lovely glance at him, “ that you are, as you say, 
a pauper.” 

Her meaning is so plain, the love-light in her eyes so 
clear, that even he gives way before it. 

“ What eyes you have, Nora,” says he, Avith a touch of 
passion, “ I hate to think they can look at any one but 
me.” 

“ Would you have me blind, then ? ” asks she, laughing 
— delighted at this change in his tone, that breathes of 
love once more. 

“To all but me — yes ! ” 

“ Why that is selfish,” says she gaily. 

“ Is it ? ” He looks at her. “ Do you know,” says he, 

4 


50 


Non A cnmNA, 


« that I have been called selfish now and then. Why I 
wonder ? Do I ” — regarding her earnestly — “ Do I appear 
really selfish — to you ? ” 

— no, what an idea! How absurd,” says she 
quickly, “ you know I was only in fun when I said that. 

Why ” She stops suddenly, seeing he is not listening 

to her, but is gazing over her shoulder at something or 
some one. His face has altered its expression. 

“ What is it ? ” asked she hurriedly. “ Not Sir Fell ? ” 
She turns, to see Sir Fell turning the corner of the con- 
servatory, with a little fragile laughing companion. It is 
Mrs. Yancourt. 

‘‘ Yes, Sir Fell,” says Ferris. “ Come. Come quickly. 
As you say, it is always well to avoid a scene.” 

It is now he who seems most desirous to get away — to 
avoid annoyance of any kind. 

Nora goes with him, skirting one of the courts, and 
past the tall, pretty, white, pigeon cot, and so to the 
laurel grove, where many walks give many opportunities 
for persecuted lovers. 

They both breathe more freely as they reach one of these 
paths, and feel themselves safe from observation. All 
the others are engrossed in the games going on below, and 
these thick, kindly laurel hedges effectually conceal them 
from view. 

“ How calm it is here,” says Nora, “and how pretty 
with that distant glimpse of the lake. I really think ” 

“ It is abominable,” breaks out Ferris angrily. Aston- 
ished, frightened, by the unexpected outbreak, she looks 
at him, to find him frowning — furious. “ To have to fly 
like this,” he goes on vehemently. “ To have one’s absence 
noted, commented upon. To be brought to book as it 
were ? Why cannot I see you, and talk to you, as ” 

“ Do not be so unhappy about me,” says she, laying her 
hand upon his arm, and loving him the more for this out- 
burst of his, that seems to point so sweetly to his care for 
her. “ He will not miss me. He will not notice my ab- 
sence.” 

“ Oh ! Sir Fell!'"'' says he impatiently — and then sud- 
denly recollecting, he lays his hand on hers and presses 
it, and laughs a little demonstratively. 

“ And even if he does,” says he, “ we must only make 


NOBA CBEINA. 


51 


the best of it, eh ? Eh ? What a little hand yours is, Kora ! 
Like a child’s — a baby’s.” 

Kora smiles. Then suddenly, as if compelled to say 
it — 

“ Kot so small as Mrs. Yancourt’s,” says she. 

“ Oh hers ! Is hers small ? Kever mind her, let us 
come back to ourselves. It does seem hard, doesn’t it, 
that I can’t meet you as another might — as Carnegie can 
for example — without dreading an explosion at any mo- 
ment? Can I not see you in some way. Kora? This 
evening say — Dinner is over here at about nine. It is 

quite light then, and I could slip away, and ” 

Ye.s. Perhaps,” says Kora thoughtfully. “ Sir Fell 
goes to the library after dinner, and then — Do you know 
tliat little wood at the end of the lawn, where the bridge 
is ? Sophie and I go down there almost every evening. 
Will you meet us there ?” 

‘‘ Us?” impatiently. 

‘‘ Sophie likes to go for a walk with me in the evening,” 
casting a little deprecatory glance at him. ‘‘ And Sophie 
is always so good to me. And sometimes, you see Denis 
comes there to see her. You know,” with a meaning little 
laugh, that breaks most oddly through her evident de- 
jection, ‘‘she is nearly as unhappy as we are. Because Sir 
Fell disapproves of Denis, too.” 

“ I expect he will disapprove of anyone for a few years 
to come,” with a sneer. “ But with regard to meeting 
you — is there always to be Sophie ? ” 

I shouldn’t like to do anything that Sophie might not- 
know about,” says Kora, speaking with decision, whilst 
coloring vividly. It seems dreadful to her to go against 
him in anything, but to deceive Sophie in act — no — she has 
gone far enough ; she will go no farther. 

“ What do you mean by that?” says he, noting the 
emphasis on the “ do,” and the sudden coloring. 

“ Cyril, you must know ! ” gently but with a sort of 
repulsion. She releases herself from his encircling arm 
and looks straight at him. ‘‘How often have I told you 
that the keeping of our engagement from her is a pain to 
me? an actual pain,” says the poor child, raising her 
hand to her throat. “But to do anything, to go anywhere 
— Ko — 710 ,” says she. 

“Well, then, I suppose there is nothing for it, but 


52 


NORA CREINA, 


Sophie always,” says he, with a shrug, “though I confess 
I could do without her. Shall I tell you something, Nora, 
that you know already ? Sophie detests me.” 

“Detests? No. Oh, certainly not,” cries Nora, as if 
shocked. “ Why should you think that ? Oh, no, it is 
not that.” 

“ If not that then what is it?” demands he, regarding 
her keenly. “Come now, Nora, when she speaks of me — 
when she deigns to speak of me at all — what does she 
say ? ” 

“ Say ? Why ” she stops short in a little^ soft, con- 

fused way, and her color mounts even higher. 

“That last flush is enough,” says he, laughing hghtly, 
if a little bitterly. “ Those darling lips of yours were 
never made for lying. One can see that. They were only 
made for ” 

He draws her to him. She shakes herself free, but he 
still holds her, and questions her. 

“ For kissing me — me only, Nora. Say that ! ” 

“ You know it,” whispers she back, sweetly ; but there 
are tears in her eyes. 

“Well — and Sophie?” questioning her still, and still 
laughing, and holding her little hands against his heart, 
“ she distrusts me ? ” 

“ Why should she ? ” 

“ Heaven alone knows ! That you don’t, is all the world 
to me. You don’t, sweetheart ? ” 

“ Cyril,” says she quietly. “ Have I ever asked you if 
you distrust me ? ” 

“ No.” His gaiety suddenly deserts him ; still holding 
her hands, he presses them even more vehemently against 
his breast, hut his eyes fall before hers. “ Do not talk of 
mistrust,” said he. 

“ Why, it was you who talked of it.” 

“Was it? Well, it was idle talk between you and me. 
Let us return to Sophie ; what is it she says of me to you ? 
That I am a gay deceiver, eh ? Come now, confess — you 
little saint,” and he gives her a loving shake. 

“ She — she certainly sometimes does hint dreadful things 
about you,” admits Nora reluctantly. “But it is only be- 
cause you will not let me tell her of our engagement, and 
because, therefore, she does not understand you. Not a 
Hty she? doesn’t ! But,” with a charming smile, that 


NORA CREINA, 


53 


sweetens hei\ eyes and lips, “Zdo ! /know you ! I know 
there is no one in all the world so true, so ^ood as you 
are ! ” 

A sharp, swift change comes over Ferris’ face. For one 
second he looks as if some gentle thing had stabbed him 
to death. 

“ Nora ! ” says he. His tone is low, and shocked, as if 
he has grown suddenly horrified. But at what? Has 
the girl’s trust and perfect faith in him been a revelation ? 
Has he now for the first time caught sight of his own soul 
in its terrible nakedness ? ' 

The shock, however, lasts but a moment. He recovers 
out of it with astonishing rapidity. He is indeed, almost 
immediately, his own self-satisfied, self-admiring, selfish 
self, again. 

« Why, there,” says he, and still his tone is remorseful, 
though now unconsciously so, “perhaps Sophie under- 
stands me well enough. I do not pose as an ‘unco guid.’ 
I pose only as — ^your lover ! Your lover to the death ! 
Heavens ! If I had money, Nora ” — he takes her hand 
again, and wrings it — “ I would let Sophie and all the 
world see how I regard you.” 

“ Cyril ! ” says the girl sharply. Somehow this new 
passion of his repulses her. Don’t talk like that. What 
is poverty ? — nothing ! Don’t be unhappy because you are 
poor. AYould I love you more, if you were rich ? Gould 
I? Oh no!” 

“ When I see an angel of goodness is it not natural that 
I should regret my inability to make that angel my own? ” 
says he. “Do you think I do not dwell upon my poverty 
night and day ? A poor devil of a beggar like me, what 
right have I to raise my eyes to you ?” 

“ Money is not everythmg,” says she. “ Oh ! Cyril, 
believe that.” 

“ It is everything,” returns he gloomily. 

“Ah ! You did not say that the other day in the or- 
chard,” cries she involuntarily. 

She stops dead short. She grows crimson. Even her 
loving eyes grow full of tears, born of confusion, 

“ Oh 1 ” says she. 


54 


NOBA CBEINA, 


CHAPTER X. 

“ Her breath was as the honey wrought by the wandering bee; 

Her lips as two red berries, plucked from the rowan-tree, 

And rose-red as young cherries her round cheek, fresh and free.” 

That she has betrayed herself is plain to Xora. Her 
color comes and goes — her mind travels backwards — and 
once again she finds herself in the middle of the old 
apple tree, listening to the voices of the two young men 
beneath. To one voice, especially, the voice that always 
thrills her. Had she not been so overcome by her sudden 
recollection, she might have noticed the alteration in the 
face before her. But her eyes are on the ground, and 
Cyril’s quick change of color and expression remain un- 
known to her. He gets over his confusion, too, far easier 
than she does, and when at last the girl summons suffi- 
cient courage to look up, she finds him, if a little pale, per- 
fectly serene. 

“ In the orchard,” says he, as if hardly understanding. 
What orchard ? ” 

“ Don’t mind ! Don’t ask me.” 

“Yes, but I think I must,” says he, smiling — if in a 
rather strained way — still with remarkable success. “ An 
orchard ? Whose orchard ? Your orchard ? ” 

“ Oh, Cyril ! Y ou won’t forgive me, but really I couldn’t 
help it. I couldn’t indeed,'^'' Again her pretty eyes fill 
with tears. “You know, yesterday, when you and Denis 
came into the oi chard — you remember ? ” 

“I am not likely to forget. We got over the wall to 
avoid Sir Fell and his agreeable speeches, and wandered 
aimlessly about, seeking for you. We gave you up at 

last, and yet you seem to have ^Why,” quickly, easily, 

and with a gently curious air, that makes one understand 
at once how he has earned his reputation as a distinguished 
amateur, “ where were you ? ” 

“Up in an old appletree!” says Xora, laughing, but 
rather shamefacedly. “Sophie and I together. And I 
had torn my frock ; and when we saw you, I told Sophie 
I should never forgive her if she said a word. I ” — blush- 


NOEA CEEINA. 


55 


ing softly — “ was afraid you would think me so untidy, 
and besides,” looking down, ‘‘ it was a very old gown, and 
I — look horrid in it.” 

It is the tenderest, the fondest confession. 

“I don’t believe that,” says Ferris, caressing her hand. 
“The dress you wear, my Nora Creina, must become 
you. Fancy you ever looking horrid. It is high treason 
to say so. W ell, and ? ” 

“ Well — we — I— we put our fingers in our ears for a 
long time, and shut our eyes tight ; but it is hard to keep 

up a position like that ; and after awhile we 1 wish,” 

wistfully — “ I had risked that old gown now, and called 
out to you — ^but, somehow, I couldri't then, and in the end 
I heard all ” 

“ The terrible things I said about you ? ” — smiling, and 
putting back a little straying curl behind her ear. 

“ No ! ” shaking her head — “ All the lovely things you 
said, about money being worthless beside love ! Ah ! you 
cannot persuade me now that you have a mercenary soul. 
All your talk about money as a chief good, goes for 
nothing ! I have heard your real sentiments — when you 
little thought I was listening.” 

“Perhaps,” always smiling and caressing her hand — “I 
hnew you were listening ! ” 

“ Pouf ! ” — gaily — “ lliat won’t do. As if you could be 
guilty of such an act as that ! No, I heard you, and I am 
glad of it.” 

“ You said you were sorry just now! ” He drops her 
hand gently but quickly. 

“Well — I’m not. I like to be in a position to compel 
you to do yourself justice. You were true to yourself 
then.” 

“ Was I? Perhaps I was posing for Butler’s benefit.” 

“ Oh ! come now, Cyril ! As if you could persuade me 
to regard you in such a light. No, no, no ! You meant 
every word you said. Do you know ” — with a merry 
sweetness — “ you Avant me — you v/ant some one who really 
understands how good you are — au fond — to compel you 
to see the innate goodness of your own heart. You 
honestly agree with me in thinking money quite a second- 
ary thing after all — and ” 

He puts her back from him. 

“What do you know about it?” says he, roughly. 


56 


NORA CREINA. 


“ What do you know about anything — a child like you ! 
I tell you, you know nothing — nothing ! ” 

“ I know you,” says she with soft persistence and great 
faith, though she is evidently both repelled and offended 
by his manner. 

“ That least of all,” says he — he pauses, and stares at 
her as if wondering. It seems beyond wonder to him 
almost. Why almost any one would have known ! On 
the instant his mind runs to Eldon Yancourt. She, at all 
events, knows. She appraises him at his right value, 
whilst showing herself willing to throw her life into the 
current of his. Eldon, and Nora ! Morning, and pure 
Dawn ! He suddenly bursts out laughing. 

‘‘Yes?” says Nora, calmly; almost unconsciously she 
repulses his desire to take her hand. 

“ Why — it was only a sudden thought,” says he, still 
laughing a little wildly. A curious fancy, that if Death 
now came to him he would welcome it, makes a discordant 
crash amongst the strings of his mind. 

“ What thought ? ” She still stands well away from 
him, her large clear eyes scanning his face. There is a 
time before him, when he hates to remember the stern 
questionings of those young, sweet eyes. 

“A mad one,” says he. “Let us forget it. The real 
thing is, that I fear to drag you into poverty.” 

“Was that all?” 

“ Oh, yes — all ! Is it not enough?” 

“No,” says she suddenly. “I wish — I wish^ Cyril, I 
could see into your very heart. In there — I should learn 
everything. Sometimes, you see, you frighten me. But I 
— I can never frighten you. I give my heart to you ! ” — 
she pauses — and a touch of keen despair — that borders 
upon tragedy — covers her young face. “ Read it ! ” 

“ I have read it,” says he. All laughter has died from 
him now. His face looks set and gray. He makes a sharp 
movement of the hand, as if he would put something from 
him. “You should read me as clearly. I tell you all I 
dread is poverty for you.” 

“ For me, with you ? It would have no dread for me,” 
says she. 

“ So you think now.” 

“ I shall think so always. To be with you -” begins 

she, 


NORA CllFlNA. 


“Ah! with me! You would soon tire of me when 
poverty crept in at the window.” 

“Cyril!” She pauses. . . . “ After all, you don’t know 
much^'' says she presently. “ Now — don’t be angry with 
me, but — 1 must say it. I know, as a/hc^, that you don’t 
care for money in itself, but I do think you lay too great 
a stress upon what it can do for one.” 

This nice distinction she makes in all good faith. 

“ It is only for your sake,” says he, almost believing in 
himself, as he says it — “ One can’t but think of the value 
of it, Avhen the happiness of one’s best possession is threat- 
ened by the want of it. You see, there it is ! The whole 
question in a nut-shell. Money, as a mere bald metal, is 
nothing ; but money, as a lever that moves the world, is 
everything.” 

“ Oh, no,” says she, impetuously. “ It is Love that 
moves the world. That is the greatest — the strongest 

lever of all. You must allow that, Cyril — you What 

is it ? ” 

“ Hush ! ” says he. He puts up his hand ; and both 
listen intently. 

Steps in the gravel walk at their right can now be dis- 
tinctly heard. 

“ It is Sir Fell,” says she, quickly, but in a low tone ; 
she makes a little frightened step to the right. 

“ Wait a moment,” says Ferris, holding her. He has 
noticed not only Sir Fell’s footsteps, but those of his com- 
panion. Small, light steps. He has even heard the faint 
sound of the little tinkling laugh, so well known to him. 
If she were to find him here, now, with Nora, the game 
(hardly yet begun) would be all at once at an end. 

“ What shall I do?” says Nora. 

“He is coming this way,” says Cyril. “Go up that 
path, you, and I’ll go this way.” 

“You’ll meet him that way.” 

“ Better that I should meet him than you,” says Ferris, 
with a truly noble air — he has told himself, in the few 
seconds that have gone by, that he would be more likely 
to explain the matter satisfactorily to Eldon Yancourt, 
than Nora would. Nora would be so sure to tell the truth 
— or, at all events, let the truth be known. “ Now, dar- 
ling, give in to me in this, Do you think I could let you 
be scolded by Sir FeU, and all for my fault? ” 


58 


NOB A CBEINA. 


‘‘ I might have known you would think of that,” says 
she, tenderly. ‘‘But why can’t you come with me ? ” 

“ Because they must have heard us talking, and — I shall 
know how to explain. There, go-go — go,” says he 
hurriedly. 

“Yes. But — ^but — Mrs. Yan court is with Sir Fell, 
Cyril. I — I do so hate her. Promise me you will not talk 
to her.” 

“ FTo — of course not. Why should I ? ” 

“Well — but just — just say t/ou hate her too.” 

“ I do. I detest her. There ! ” as the steps grow 
nearer. “ For Heaven’s sake, go ! And — remember, this 
evening.” 

u Yes — yes. But if she talks to you ?” 

“ I’ll cut her short. I’ll insult her. Xora ! Do you 
want a scene ? ” 

“No,” says Nora — “only ” 

Ferris draws a quick breath. Already Sir Fell and 
Mrs. Yancourt are so dangerously near as to make his 
voice known to them at any moment. Despair rouses 
him to genius. “Can’t you trust me?” says he — the 
keenest reproach in his whole tone and air. 

In a second she is gone. With a last glance at him, 
full of glad relief, she has slipped round the corner, and 
is now many yards away ! 

With a sigh of relief, Ferris sinks upon a rustic seat, 
and lets his head fall upon his hand. As a sadly medi- 
tative man, he is perfect ! He awaits the advent of Sir 
Fell and Mrs. Yancourt with composure, having now 
provided against any immediate unpleasantness. A dis- 
turbance of any sort would annoy him intensely and upset 
most of his calculations. To have Sir Fell make himself 
disagreeable to him, because of his supposed (happily only 
supposed) love affair with his step-daughter would not 
suit his book at all — at present, at all events. And Eldon ! 
Eldon, who is always so confoundedly jealous ! She would 
see and hear everything, and that wealthy and handsome 
little widow, who is — well — rather a friend of his, would 
undoubtedly bear malice! Wealthy and handsome wid- 
ows, as a rule, do not like their friends to admire any one 
but themselves. 

Of course, he might have followed Nora into that upper 
walk, but that would have necessitated their appearing 


koha cnmKA, 


59 


together on the tennis court below, a walk, and a court, 
perfectly visible to both Sir Fell and Mrs. Vancourt from 
where they now are. 


CHAPTER XI. 

“ Thy face is paler than the moon ; my heart is paler still — 

My heart ? I had no heart — ’twas yours — ’twas yours to keep or 
kill.” 

Sir Fell and Mrs. Yancourt turn the corner at a speed 
that might be called racing — Mrs. Yancourt winning by a 
head. There is something in the tilting of her determined 
little chin, the sparkling brightness of her clever eyes, 
something, indeed, in the very sweetness of her smile, 
that warns Ferris she is on the war-path. Her first glance 
at him is followed by a sharp, inquisitorial glance to 
right and left of him, and even into the dense thicket of 
low-cut laurels that stands before him. 

“ Alone ? ” says she briskly. 

“ Unfortunately,” says Ferris, with a calm that enrages 
her. “ If you have come here for society,” rising with a 
pleasant smile, and a little vague movement of the arms, 
the looks as if it would have been a comfortable stretch if 
she were not present, ‘‘Pm afraid you will be disap- 
pointed. They are all down on the tennis grounds, I 
think.” 

“All?” Her manner is still remarkably airy, if vio- 
lently doubtful. 

“We certainly thought we heard voices,” says Sir 
Fell, in his own harsh tones. 

“ Did you ? Xo wonder,” says Ferris, “ every one seems 
to be all over the place to-day. I came here hoping for 
quiet, and a cigarette — ^but ” 

“Where’s the cigarette?” asks Mrs. Yancourt. She 
stands smiling down upon him. There is something 
mocking in the smile now. 

Such a smile ! Truly he had forgotten the cigarette. 
To make the thing perfect, he should have had that 
cigarette between his fingers. At this moment he hates 
her. 


GO 


mnA cnmNA. 


“ I am just going to light it ” says he, leisurely, slipping 
his hand into his pocket. 

“ Oh, no ! you are not. You are coming down to the 
grounds with Sir Fell and me,” says Mrs. Yancourt, 
lightly, prettily, but with an underlying decisiveness that 
sounds dangerous. She lays her hand upon his arm — a 
hand as devoid of weight as a snowflake, but that never- 
theless feels as heavy as a stone to Ferris. “ I can’t bear 
to picture you here all alone with no one to talk to, no 
one to console you, a mere forsaken wreck ! ” 

There is something diabolic in the easy, light laughter 
that follows this speech. 

‘‘ It cuts me to the heart to think of you having been 
sitting here all by yourself for this last dull half hour.” 

“ I have not been so altogether alone as you imagine,” 
says Ferris. 

‘‘ No,” she laughs again, this time, even more mah- 
ciously. 

No. I have had my thoughts.” 

“ Pleasant ones apparently ! Do look at him. Sir Fell. 
What a picture of despair ! or rather of the naughty boy 
who cried for the moon ! ” She pauses. “ Where is your 
moon ? ” says she. 

“ In the Heavens ! ” says he. His face is white. 

“ Beyond your reach ? ” 

‘‘ That is for you to say,” his eyes fixed steadily on 
hers. 

“ For me ! ” It is her turn to look at him. 

“ For you ! ” 

“ What a liar you are ! ” says she, in a low tone as fierce 
as it is low. It is unheard by Sir Fell, who has been run- 
ning over in his own mind the truth of the idea she has 
been inoculating him with, during the walk she has com- 
pelled him to take up here. He would much rather have 
remained below, carrying out his own designs; but 
she had hinted to him that Nora was sitting amongst the 
laurels with Ferris, and that at once had seemed to him 
the first thing to combat. Nora’s marriage should be 
prevented at all risks. 

Her marriage, or the marriage of Sophie, would mean 
the loss of so much a year to him. He had felt deep joy 
when St. John Carnegie had shown a preference for Nora, 
knowing that the girl, with her heart fullof Ferris, would 


NOBA CBEINA. 


61 


certainly refuse him. If he, Sir Fell, hindered her mar- 
riage, with all suitors, people might talk — hut if he en- 
couraged Carnegie, who was eligible (and yet to whom he 
knew she would certainly have nothing to say), and 
turned his back on Ferris, whom all the world knew 
to be a ne’er-do-weel, then who could talk? He hugged 
himself over this clever solving of a rather difficult 
problem. 

“ It is in your power to say what you like to me,” says 
Ferris slowly. 

“ Is it? I think so myself. Sir Fell,” turning to him, 
and speaking as lightly, as unconcernedly, as if only a 
second ago her face had not looked like a fiend, “we were 
wrong, you see ! There is nobody here of any real import- 
ance, except Mr. Ferris.” 

“ I thought perhaps ” begins Sir Fell, frowning at 

Ferris. 

“ Oh, no, you mustn’t think,” says she, prettily. “ Think- 
ing brings trouble. Come ! Let us all go back to the 
grounds. Tea is in the conservatory, I think, and,” with 
a delightful little affectation of misery, “ I do so waiit my 
tea!” 

The three go down the path together past the lake and 
towards the large conservatory, where tea is usually 
served as long as the warmth and the summer sunshine 
last. 

Almost as they reach the first court, a group divides, 
and a tall, stout person emerges from it. 

“ Miss Baxter 1 ” cries Sir Fell, suddenly, with all the 
air of one who has lighted upon an unexpected, and most 
enchanting surprise. “ Where have you been all day ? I 
have been looking for you everywhere! ” His bonhomie^ 
though indeed it sounds a trifle forced to Sophie, who has 
just come up with them, sounds everything desirable to 
Miss Baxter, who receives it most amiably. She is a large, 
showy -looking woman of about forty, with a small eye and 
a determined jaw. 

“Very good of you ! ” says she in a low bass voice that 
would have done credit to a Sergeant Major in the hour 
of action. “ But I’ve been pretty well to the fore all the 
afternoon.” 

At this moment, Mrs. Vancourt, seeing her opportunity, 
turns to Ferris. 


^2 


NOTiA CHEINA. 


“ Come with me round the lake,” says she, in an imperi- 
ous tone. “ I want to speak to you.” 

The tone is almost too imperious. Ferris hesitates, and 
for a moment shows a disposition to revolt. Only for a 
moment, however. What madness to dream that he can 
revolt ! Is he not bound hand and foot — ^by honor ? He 
almost laughs aloud as the word honor comes to him. 
AYhat has he got to do with honor ? 

And this slight, fragile thing — a creature so frail, that 
one might readily believe that even a good gust of wind 
would Mow her away into space — (Oh ! that it could! but 
such gusts are not purchasable!) For all her seeming 
fragility she is strong — strong as Fate ! She is his Fate ! 
A certainty that she will conquer him yet, renders him 
cold, nerveless, in spite of the defiance that he is doing 
his utmost to subdue in lip and eye. The memory of 
another, as slight, as fragile, is tormenting him. How 
like, and yet unlike, are the two on whom his mind is 
dwelling. One small, sweet body is clothed with grace, 
born of the spirit — the other, with a charming costume — 
a veritable confection, purchased from a West End estab- 
lishment ! 

Alas ! The fashionable frock is decidedly more likely 
to carry the day than “ beauty’s dress,” which is poor 
Nora Creina’s best attire ! Beauty may outwear a frock 
or two, indeed, but beauty will not last forever. It will 
fade, as surely as the frocks, and what is there to fall back 
upon in Nora’s case? Here truly Mrs. Yancourt has the 
X3ull over her lovely rival ; for she has two possessions 
warranted to last as long as she does — her fortune and her 
temper ! 

Well — raren’tyou coming?” says she. 

She looks up, and by ill-luck just at this moment Nora 
comes lightly across the sward, in their direction. She is 
talking to Mr. Carnegie, but her eyes are on Ferris. 

“ Oh ! I see ! ” says Mrs. Yancourt, with a curious tighten- 
ing of her straight lips. “ Miss Carew wants you, perhaps. 
Well, for the moment I happen to want you too. You 
can choose, Cyril. How d’ye do. Miss Carew,” smiling, and 
nodding as sweetly to her as though “her ways are ways 
of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace.” “ Choose ! ” 
says she, in a sharp, wicked little tone, whilst still smiling 


^rORA CREINA. 


63 


at Nora, who has returned her how gently, with a touch 
of embarrassment, “ Which is it to be ?” 

“ What a question ! ” says Ferris. 

“ An awkward one, I daresay. I am going this way,” 
turning in a direction that will lead her towards the lake, 
and directly away from where Nora is standing, a soft 
flush upon her face. 

“ So am I,” says Ferris deliberately. He has caught 
one full entreating glance from Nora’s eyes, a glance he 
has not dared to return, kr.owing his companion’s sharp 
eyes are on him. He turns and walks away with her, 
raging hatred in his heart. Hatred of himself, and a far 
bitterer hatred against the woman at his side. He is a 
man always to lay the heavier weight of blame upon 
another. But, in truth, any one might have pitied him 
now. The reproachful eyes seem to burn into him. What 
sin is not his with regard to her ? Innocent as he would 
stand in the world’s broad view, has he not yet destroyed 
in her her faith in love, in truth, in honesty ? Has he not, 
in a sense, betrayed her ? He feels like Judas ! 

They have got to the brink of the lake now, and, walk- 
ing along its side, soon disappear behind the trees that rise 
near it, tall and stately. Nora — where is Nora ? He casts 
a swift glance behind him. Mrs. Vancourt catches it and 
laughs. 

“ She is with Mr. Carnegie now,” says she, with a rather 
malignant touch of amusement. “Would you disturb 
her ? I know she is a friend of yours. You should study 
her — study her future, I mean ; and really to study her 
in the present would not be amiss. I daresay it has never 
occurred to you that she has not only one, but a train of 
admirers ; the fullest train I know. Your innocent Nora 
has not suggested hel’self to you in the light of a moKst dis- 
tinguished coquette ? ” 

“ I don’t see why you should imagine that I dwell so 
much upon No Miss Carew.” 

“ What a delightful little hesitation,” says she laugh- 
ing. Her laugh is always light, and sweet, and catching. 
“ But of course I know, being a man, you don’t like to 
hear one woman run down by another. You are all that 
is chivalrous and truthful ; still, I suppose there is no harm 
in my saying that I think if she married Mr. Carnegie, she 
would be doing very well for herself.” 


64 


NOUA CBEINA, 


“ No harm at all,” says Ferris calmly, who is feeling as 
if he could willingly take her throat between his two hands 
and choke the life out of her. 

“ What a hypocrite you are, Cyril,” says his companion, 
as if amused. ‘‘ Come, tell me, where did you bury her, 
when I came upon the scene, awhile ago ? ” 


CHAPTER XII. 

“ Oh! weary’s our money — and weary’s our wealth, 

And sure we don’t want them, while we have our 
health ; 

’Twas they tempted Connor over the sea, 

And I lost my lover, my cushla machree ! ” 

— Irish Ballad. 

“Her? Who?” asks Ferris, staring at her as if 
amazed. “ You are surely not alluding to Miss Carew.” 

“ To No Miss Carew,” mimicking him exactly as he 

spoke a minute ago. “Yes, I am. To her only. What a 
surprise ! ” mockingly. “ Isn’t it ? ” 

“ I don’t follow you,” says Ferris coldly. “ I presume 
you allude to our meeting in the shrubbery, awhile since. 
I fancied by your face, and that of Sir Fell’s, that you ex- 
pected a dhiouement of some sort as you turned the cor- 
ner. I felt almost sorry for your disappointment, there 
was no ‘her,’ and no ‘ scene,’ so far as Yknow.” 

“ So far as I know, rather.” She stops suddenly, and 
by a little gesture compels him to stop too. “ Look here, 
Cyril, we have known each other for a considerable time. 
In a sense, we belong to each other. You owe me some- 
thing.” 

“ Money — yes ” begms he. 

“No. Not money ! ” cries she, stamping her foot upon 
the ground. “ Who is thinking of money ? ” 

“ I was,” says he deliberately. 

“ Well, I wasn’t. You can misjudge me as much as you 
like, but money was not in my thoughts. You owe ine 
friendship, at all events, and — love too. You know, even 
before poor John’s death ” 


J^OSA CREINA. 


65 


‘‘ For Heaven’s sake, Eldon, don’t bring in ‘ poor John.’ 
You know you cared as little for him, as,” it is on the tip 
of his tongue to say, “ as he did for you,” but providen- 
tially he changes it in time to — ‘‘ as jTdid.” 

“ After all, he wasn’t half bad,” says she, petulantly. 

“ I’m glad you’ve found it out in time,” says he, with a 
sarcastic smile. 

‘‘There is one thing,” says she, pointedly. “I have 
nothing to reproach myself with, with regard to him.” 

“ That must be an eternal satisfaction,” says Ferris. 

“ How nasty you can be, Cyril. But I like you when 
you are nasty. You make me laugh. 1 want to be laugh- 
ing always. But ” — she looks at him, and the storm sig- 
nal settles once more upon her brow — “I must get at 
the truth of this thing. Who was with you in the 
laurels ? ” 

“ What on earth do you mean ? ” says he. “ One would 
think I had not answered that question already.” 

“ How innocent you look,” says she with a sneer. “ Do 
you think all people become deaf as well as blind just to 
oblige you ? ” She throws up her head, and the wind 
blows her fluffy pretty red hair into her eyes. She 
pushes it up again impatiently, and now he can see the 
eyes plainly, and the expression of them. 

“ Oh ! what a brow, what awful eyes were hers ; 

’Twas Hera flashing from her midnight orbs 
The soul of Pallas like a star.” 

She is looking her best certainly, but malignant. The 
brown-red hair and white brow, and the brilliant, angry 
eyes beneath, all make a whole. She is a perfect picture 
of a most imperfect nature ! Again the calm, lovely face 
of Nora rises before Ferris’ mind. 

“ Come, answer me ! ” says she, still patting the ground 
with her foot. 

“ I tell you, you must explain,” says Ferris in a dull 
way ; his mind for the moment is clogged. He is trying 
indeed not so much to remember what she is saying, as 
to forget how Nora is looking! 

“Well, I’ll explain,” says she, her eyes still clear and 
blue, and furious. “Was Nora Carew with you just 
now?” 

“ Miss Carew ? Certainly not.” 


6b 


NOttA CttMNA. 


“ Do you think,” says she, as if choking, that I did 
not hear voices ? ” 

‘‘Very probably you did ! Good Heavens, Eldon, what 
is the good of your going on like this. There were many 
people in the laurel walk. It is a kind of maze, as you 
know. One goes in here, and out there, if you can find 
your way, and ” 

“You are clever, as I said ! ” She pauses. “ It is per- 
haps unfortunate that I am clever too, in the same low, 
cunning fashion! ” 

Her eyes are now blazing. Ferris takes no notice of 
this stinging little pleasantry. 

“ Why don’t you speak ? ” says she, losing all control 
over herself. “You know that girl was with you! Do 
you think I have not heard about you and her ? Of your 
being in love with her, of your making appointments 
with her — dancing with her? — About the love” — vici- 
ously — “I have had no fear. You could never be in love 
but with one person.” 

“ You ! ” says he promptly. “ I am glad you have done 
me some sort of justice ! ” 

“With me? No. With yourself!” She hesitates, 
and, as if a little mollified by his last speech, goes on more 
gently : “ I tell you this, Cyril, that all I want is to be- 

lieve in you. But how is it possible ? Come, swear to 
me now that I was wrong in my supposition.” 

“ Swear what ? ” 

“ That I did not see you and Miss Carew go up to that 
laurel maze together.” 

“ Certainly I shan’t swear that,” says he. He has now 
quite recovered himself, and taking her by both arms, 
sways her tenderly, lovingly, to and fro. “ Why, what a 
silly little girl you are ! ” (He has learned by experience 
that she likes to be called a girl.) “ Miss Carew wanted 
to go up to that walk to meet her sister, who was with 
Butler.” 

“ With Mr. Butler?” 

“Yes. You know there is a — well, an understanding 
between those two, and I took her there, and ” 

“ She met her sister ? ” 

“ No, I’m sorry to say. Not exactly on the spot, but 
she saw her at a distance and ran after her. I didn’t 
quite like to explain all that before Sir Fell, who is a 


NOBA CBEINA. 


67 


little unkind to the girls, I have heard, and specially ob- 
jects to Sophie’s love affair with Butler, but now, you 
know how it is.” 

“Do I?” says she. “It is a pretty story! But — I 
shall ask Miss Carew about it.” 

“ Perhaps you hardly understand how extremely inso- 
lent you are,” says Ferris calmly, yet with a look at her 
— a look that has hatred in it. It frightens her. Her 
courage fails her. All her small, shallow soul is given to 
Ferris. To lose him would be to lose the best thing her 
life contains. 

“How am I insolent?” asks she, as if to gain time. 

“ You tell me, in polite words, that I lie.” 

“ Nonsense, Cyril,” says she lightly. “ Insolent ! What 
a word between you and me. After all, what a worry 
we are making out of nothing. I daresay I was wrong. 
I am sure now that I was wrong ; but . . . say so. She 
wasn’t there then?” 

“You still persist?” asks he, encouraged by the weak- 
ness that she has betrayed. He makes a mistake there. 

“I do persist,” returns she sullenly. Recognizing 
duplicity in his last question, she now grows once more 
suspicious. “ Come — answer me ! ” cries she with a sort 
of suppressed violence. 

Ferris draws a sharp breath. One would always rather 
7iot lie, if possible, and he hesitates. A good deal, as he 
knows, depends upon his answer now. Eldon Vancourt, 
if not well born is certainly well endowed, and to throw 
away the fortune she so freely offers him is — well — to ask 
a good deal of a good-for-nothing, fashionable, utterly 
worthless young man. 

“ Look here, Eldon,” says he. “ I’ll humor you so far as 
to discuss the matter with you. If Miss Carew was with 
me on the laurel walk when you came up, where do you 
think she could be spirited away to on the spot ? ” 

“ There was a corner,” says she, with a suspicious half 
closing of her lids. 

“ And if she went round the corner, why not I go with 
her ? Come now, Eldon, isn’t there a great deal of folly 
mixed up with your accusations ? And why accuse me at 
all ? You seem to think I did not want to see you wdien 
you came up that walk ? If so, why did I not go away ? 
There was a corner for me too 1 Do you know you are the 


68 


JsrOBA CBEINA. 


unkindest girl on earth, I think. Shall I tell you who 1 
was thinking about when you came up to me ? ” 

‘‘ Miss Carew,” says she ; but her voice is softer, and 
she casts a swift glance at him, that has nothing of anger 
in it now — and only a fading suspicion. That word “ girl” 
always pleases her. Though still rather young, so far as 
years go, she is for all that much older than Nora, and 
she has been through a good deal, and feels at times, when 
alone with her own thoughts and memories, a little bat- 
tered — a trifle seamed by life’s battle. 

“Nonsense!” says Ferris gaily. “You know better 
than that!” He takes her hands, and holding them, 
swings them lightly from side to side. He is laughing. 
He has now quite entered into the spirit of his lie, and 
is determined (flnds it easy indeed) to say all that she 
requires of him. If he does not marry her, there is 
nothing before him but perdition — and yet, to marry 
her . . . Once again a soft, young, trusting face rises 
before him. “You ” — pausing and letting his eyes look 
tenderly into hers — “ who are the one woman on earth 
who is anything to me.” 

“Is that true?” She seems to search him with her 
eyes. “ I could be much to you,” says she at last. 

“Yes. But . . . consider,” says he quickly. “I 

— I dare not ask you to marry me, Eldon. I, without a 
penny, you, with everything ! ” 

“Do you think that counts with me ?” says she. “No. 
No. If I were only sure that you loved me — not even me 
alone,” paling, until her thin lips grow white, but me 
best of all — I should be content.” 

“But what of me?” says Ferris, pressing her palms 
fondly. “Have I no honor, no desire to show myself 
in a good light to the one I love? No. You must let me 
wait until I am in a better postition . . .” 

She interrupts him by a quick bur-st of laughter. 

“ I shall wait forever at that rate,” says she. Then 
seeing the queer, quick change in his face, a change hard- 
ly to be described, but of which the principal mixture is 
disgust, “ DoiTt be angry with me,” says she. “ Of course 
I didn’t mean it, and if you make a name for yourself over 
something or other, I shall be very proud. But ! ” with 
a little smiling frown, “ what a dull day we are having. 
Come, tell me now, what do you want for Newmarket? ” 


NOEA CEEINA, 


69 


“Not a penny,” says he. 

“Well now I hiowjovi are angry,” says she, making 
her little criticism (so terribly malapropos) without under- 
standing it. To be underbred is nothing in a case of this 
kind (or thousands of others that require nice manage- 
ment), because many underbred people are full of feeling. 
But to be devoid of breeding, as well as feeling, is fatal ! 

“ How do you know it ? ” There is thunder in his air 
— suppressed, but ready to break forth at any moment. 
“ Do you mean that ” 

“ I mean nothing,” says she, in a little hurried sort of way. 

“ You mean that I already owe you money,” says he, 
his face white with wrath and self-anger — (that bitterest 
anger of all) — “ Well that is true, but soon I hope to be 
able to repay you.” This hope is as light as gossamer, 
considering the present state of his finances. 

“ Cyril, don’t talk to me like that,” says she, fiinging 
aAvay his hands and gazing at him with bright and pas- 
sionate eyes. “ What is money to me, what is anything^ 
if only I can tell myself that you love me ? You do — don’t 
you ? Cyril — remember ! ” 

“ I remember,” says he. “ Do you think I could for- 
get?” His lips are firmly set together — he looks in- 
deed as if to remember was too easy to him, to forget im- 
possible, and his whole face is full of anguish. 

“ Why do you look like that ? ” demands she suddenly. 

“ Like what ? ” 

“ Like one condemned ! ” 

“ Well, is it not your fault ? ” He lays his hands upon 
her shoulders, and takes possession of her, as it were. “ I 
am like one condemned when you are unkind to me, when 
you — cast me off. There, Eldon, you know how it is be- 
tween you and me, and I think you love me.” 

“ That is not the question,” says she, paling in turn. 
“ Do you love me ? ” 

“ You know it! ” 

“ And still you talk of waiting ? ” 

“ Because. Well — I would be worthy of you.” 

“ Cyril ! If I found you false ” She thrusts him 

back from her and still with her little hands on him, ex- 
amines his features with a slow sort of passion. “You 
irill be true ? ” asks she. “ This waiting is not all pre- 
tence ? you want to marry me ? ” 

“ It is my one desire,” returns he, slowly, solemnly. 


70 


J}{OBA CREINA. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

“ There’s a colleen fair as May 
For a year and for a day 
I’ve sought by every way — Her heart to gain. 

There’s no art of tongue or eye 
Fond youths with maidens try 
But I’ve tried with ceaseless sigh — Yet tried in vain.” 

Meantime Sir Fell Anketell and Miss Baxter have been 
doing a pas sent business in the shape of a tUe a tete^ to 
the admiration of all beholders except two. Nora and 
Sophie, standing a little to the right, have been listening 
to Sir Fell’s conversation with his companion with an 
astonishment that borders on disgust. Anything like Sir 
Fell’s bonhomie^ his gaiety, his smartness (it is the smart- 
ness that reduces the girls to the borders of open insubor- 
dination), his urbanity, you never saw. 

“ He’s regularly going it,” says Eusebius Brush, who 
has come up to Nora, and with Mr. Carnegie is making a 
sandwich Of her. “ Heaven alone — and Miss Baxter — 
knows where this will end.” 

‘‘ In the breach of promise court for choice,” says Denis 
Butler, who is talking to Sophie but has overheard 
Eusebius. 

“ Hardly. He means business this time,” says the 
latter. 

“ Yes — ^but she? would any sane woman marry him? 
And he — he would be just the one contemptible fellow 
in the world to bring an action against a woman.” 

“ There will be no action,” says Eusebius. “ She’ll 
marry him.” 

“ Oh ! do you really think so ?” asks Sophie. 

“ I really do.” 

“ Then what is to become of us ? ” disconsolately. 

“ I should say, you would be in far better case than 
you are at present,” says Eusebius. ‘‘ He will be able 
to divide his favors more, to spread them abroad — he 
will in fact have three to dance upon, instead of two.” 

“ But we ? ” says Sophie. ‘‘ How about Nora and me ? 
— we shall have two to dance on us, instead of one.” 


NORA CBEINA. 71 

Mr. Brush runs his hand over his large, cleanly-shaven 
face. 

“ That’s awkward, certainly,” says he. “ If one thinks 
of her foot ! Fives, if an inch, I should say, and feel 
charitable afterwards. I don’t believe even her little toe 
is light or fantastic ! ” 

“ Nora, are you listening ? ” says Sophie. “ Do you hear? 
It is just as we thought. Eusebius says Sir Fell is going 
to marry Miss Baxter.” 

“ Is he ? ” says Nora. 

‘‘ What a tone ! Don’t you care ? Fancy having a step- 
mother ! ” 

‘‘Well — why not?” says Nora; she smiles faintly; 
“ I really clon^t care — I don’t care about anything,” says 
she. She looks indeed, at this moment, as if all things in 
Heaven and earth are indifferent to her. Sophie regards 
her intently for a moment* and then turns away. 

“I daresay it is all only talk,” says she to Butler. 
“ She is hideous, and of no birth, and Sir Fell likes people 
to be well-born. He can’t bear the Kinsellas, for ex- 
ample. Now, ugly as she is, if she had only a title, I 
could believe in it, but as it is ” 

“ She has an excellent title,” says Eusebius. “ She is 
entitled to ten thousand a year by all accounts, and they 
say the business is increasing every day.” 

“ Oh, not that sort of title ! ” 

“ I tell you it is a first-class one,” says Eusebius. 
“ You can meet many a woman who is a Peeress. But it 
is one in a thousand who is a Beeress ! Miss Baxter is a 
Beeress ! ” 

“ It is heer ? ” says Sophie, “ we always thought it was 
soap or tallow : she is English then ? ” 

“Yes. Liverpool, I fancy. Take my advice, Sophie, 
and cultivate her. If Sir Fell gives her his lean title, in 
exchange for her stout ten thousand per annum, I think 
it will be worth your while to make yourself civil.” 

“ I shan’t,” says Sophie. “ She is vulgar and noisy, 
and abominable in every way.” 

“ Take care ! ” says Butler in a low tone, “ they are 
coming this way.” 

Sir Fell indeed is almost behind her. He has come up 
to them once more with Miss Baxter in tow, and is beam- 
ing all over. His genial smiles, and his brilliant glances 


72 


NORA CREINA, 


are things to behold. His tall, lean, aristocratic figure is 
drawn up to its fullest height, and benevolent sparkles 
light his eyes. He is, as I have said, a distinctly hand- 
some man, with eyes like a hawk, thin, well-cut lips, 

“ And I tell you in good certain 
He had a seemly nose.’* 

as old Chaucer would have it. 

‘‘ Hah ! ” says he, as his eye meets Sophie’s. “ You, my 
dear girl — an<^Nora! Miss Baxter, will you permit me 
to introduce to you my two dear daughters ? ” 

He bends his lean carcass over Miss Baxter’s stout one, 
and questions her with delightful deference. Miss Baxter 
nods her head in true masculine style. She makes a 
movement of one of her big hands that is meant to be one 
of graceful acquiescence. 

Miss Baxter, however, is not altogether dependent upon 
her hands for size. She is big in every way. Her friends 
call her a fine woman — her foes a “ porpoise.” It will 
kindly be remembered that both her friends and foes are 
culled from the. ranks. She has a healthy appetite, an 
unfailing amount of small talk, and a poodle ! 

This poodle exercises her much, both in mind and body, 
specially body. She walks it very carefully twice a day, 
she has indeed of late years developed a strong faith in 
the “constitutional,” as beneficial to the poodle. Her 
foes (but nobody ever pays attention to the sayings of 
!oes) declare she keeps the poodle as an excuse for exercis- 
ing herself^ because “ Poor Miranda grows so fat ! ” 

Miranda is her name. It can hardly be said to suit her, 
yet she glories in it. To her there is a touch not only of 
romance but of high breeding in it. Thus might a Prin- 
cess of the blood Royal be called, or even a paltry 
Duchess ! As a rule, to her intimates, she signs herself 
Miranda B. A Baxter might be anybody — but a Miran- 
da! .. . 

Miranda’s manners are not her strong point. They are 
loud. They are downright; terribly downright. A 
spade, to the fair Miranda, is always a spade. Her edges 
are all rough, her corners sharp. As a conclusion of the 
whole matter, there isn’t a single “ frill ” about her any- 
where. 


NORA CREINA. 


73 


“ These are my dear daughters,” says Sir Fell, with 
quite a coquettish smile. “ Sophie — Nora — let me intro- 
duce you to Miss Baxter.” 

‘‘ How d’ye do, girls ? ” says Miss Baxter, in a loud, 
hearty tone. 

“ This is Nora ! ” says Sir Fell, laying his hand on 
Nora’s arm with a glowing smile. He would have pre- 
ferred to bring Sophie forward, but in a way he is always 
a little afraid of her. 

‘‘ I’ve seen you before, haven’t I ? ” says Miss Baxter, 
with a scrutinizing smile. “ Down in the village, one 
day, wasn’t it ? The Lacys have been wondering why 
you haven’t been near them, these weeks.” 

“ Sir Fell said he couldn’t let us have the horse,” says 
Sophie instantly, in the sweetest, gentlest, little way. 

Denis Butler gives her frock a pull behind. 

“ What’s the ^ood of putting his back up,” whispers 
he. 

“ Not a bit of good — only I love to see his face when 
he’s mad,” says she maliciously. 

“ They shall call. They shall call at once,” says Sir 
Fell, after one swift, withering glance at Sophie, who 
misses it, having turned aside to give way to the laugh- 
ter that is consuming her. “ As dear Sophie has very 
justly said, I could not spare one of the horses of late. A 
busy time of year on a farm, you see, where ” — with a 
deprecatory, but charming little gesture. — ‘‘ there is not 
much money. And, besides, we hardly thought you 
would care for the visits of two harum-scarum children, 

eh? They area little shy, you see, and Well, well, 

well ! They will be honored, indeed, now they know you 
would like them to call.” 

“ It was the Lacys who were talking about it. ’Twasn’t 
me,” says Miss Baxter. 

“ I can quite understand that,” says Sir Fell. “ But 
the girls will be delighted to go and see you soon, won’t 
you, girls ? ” 

“ Delighted! ” says Nora coldly. 

“You look it ! ” says Miss Baxter, with a laugh as big 
as herself. 

It rings through the air, dies away, and silence follows 
it. There now indeed ensues an awkward pause, with 
which even Sir Fell hardly knows how to deal. Sophie, 


74 


NOBA CBEINA, 


however, whom it is difficult to embarrass, employs this 
brief interlude in a careful examination of the author of 
the late bombshell. Beneath that showy exterior, what 
is there ? Power, certainly, and a strong will, and what 
else ? Is it honesty? At all events there can be no doubt 
about the strength of her will. Sophie recognizes this 
fact with a shiver of inward satisfaction. Whatever the 
future step-mother may prove to her or Nora, she will 
certainly prove a stumbling block in the path of Sir Fell. 
He, at all events, is bound to find her an interesting sub- 
ject. 

“Oh! That he may!''"' says naughty Sophie to her 
own heart. There is even a delicious throb of hope in her 
bosom. From this moment she decides to further Sir 
Fell’s marriage with “ the Beeress ” with all her might. 

All these righteous thoughts flow through Sophie’s 
mind in a second, and Sir Fell is still struggling with 
himself to bring forth a charming speech that shall do 
away with Miss Baxter’s late pleasantry, when a tall man, 
of middle age, with all the airs, however, of a youthful 
Adonis, appears upon the scene. It is Peter Kinsella. 

“ Lady Saggartmore has sent me to ask if you are not 
all cornin’ in to tea,” says he, in a high, most elegant tone, 
and a swaying bow of his body that includes every one in 
the group, and reduces his form to a corkscrew. 

“We’re coming. We’re coming,” cries Sir Fell, who 
hails this break with delight, and who is once more ter- 
ribly genial. He seems, indeed, overflowing with good 
humor, at such a rate, that one cannot help fearing the 
supply cannot last — that it is inadequate to the tremen- 
dous demand made upon it. “ Miss Baxter, will you permit 
me to take you to the conservatory? Tea is there, I 
think, Mr. Kinsella, eh? Yes — yes. Girls, you will come 
too? Really, Miss Baxter, after all I feel I should not 
monopolize you so entirely, and I should like you to make 
my daughters’ acquaintance. I hope, my dear girls,” 
with a roving glance from Sophie to Nora and back again, 
a rather nervous, speedy glance — a glance that is dis- 
tinctly afraid of its reception — “ you have not been over- 
exerting yourselves. You must x3ardon me. Miss Baxter, 
but I assure you I always dread the sun for these dear 
children — they are so full of fun and life. I am anxious 
always. A poor, wifeless man like me,” with a sudden 


KOBA CBEIKA. 


?5 

uplifting of hands and brows, ‘‘ is always filled with ap- 
prehensions for those he loves. No one to help him, you 
see, to lighten his burden. Dear Nora, you look very 
warm.” 

Nora is as white as a sheet. 

‘‘ I seldom felt cooler,” returns she, in a low tone, in 
which the disgust is but barely concealed. 

‘‘Warm! She looks like a ghost!” cries Miss Baxter 
giving way to another loud burst of merriment. “ Ha — 
ha — ha! You don’t seem to understand ’em much, 
made a mistake there, eh ? ” 

“ Ah, well ! ” says Sir Fell, still smiling, though in rather 
ghastly fashion now, and with a faint contraction of the 
brows, that means mischief to somebody later on. “ I see 
I have you all against me. But,” archly, and with his 
hawk eyes and aristocratic nose now bent upon Miss Bax- 
ter, “ you must not encourage them in rebellion against 
me. We all hope to reckon you amongst our friends, but 
you mustn’t spoil the girls. No, really ! Well, shall we 
come ? Sophie, I am sure you will accompany Miss Bax- 
ter, and Nora,” with a steady glance at Nora, “I know 
you will come with me.” 

Nora colors faintly ; she glances a little helplessly from 
side to side. It seems impossible for her to refuse, and 
yet — to go. 

“ Miss Carew has promised to let me take her in to tea.” 
says Carnegie suddenly, whose eyes are as usual on her 
small, pathetic, little face, and who has noticed the desire 
for escape so largely written in it. He tells his harmless 
lie quite calmly, and with an air difficult to combat. 

“ Hah ! very good. Forestalled, I see,” says Sir Fell, 
with a last desperate attempt at gaiety. “Never mind, 
Nora, don’t be remorseful! I shall,” with an airy wave 
of the hand to her, and a swift, malignant glance, “ have 
a chat with you, later on.” 

He follows Miss Baxter and Sophie, and his high cack- 
ling laughter can be heard until they turn into the con- 
servatory, where tea is being served. 

“Do you wish to go in?” asks Carnegie, letting his 
eyes rest on Nora’s. 

“ No. Not yet. By-and-bye,” says she restlessly. 

“ You will prefer a walk ? ” 

“ Yes, I think.” 


76 


NOBA CBEINA. 


“ Come then,” says he. He turns towards the lake, and 
Nora, in a listless way, accompanies him. It is the very 
way Cyril and Mrs. Yancourt had gone, but that suits her. 

It is almost sure they will not return this way, but will 
go round by the upper walk, and to meet them now is the ; 

last thing that she desires. She feels dull and out of , 

spirits. She is wishing with all her heart that Mr. Car- 
negie would go away, and leave her to take her walk 
alone. It is terrible to her to have him here, expecting 
her to talk to him, to answer him, to have even to suggest 
topics of conversation. She seems to have no speech left ' 
in her, no desire for it. She would have liked to tell her- 
self that her head aches — but her head is perfectly well 
— there is no ache anywhere. She will not allow herself 
to think that there is an ache in that worst place of all — 
her heart. 

“ Did you honestly mean what you said awhile ago ? ” 
asks Carnegie presently. 

“ ‘ Awhile ago ’ ? What did I say awhile ago ? ” 

‘‘ That you &d not care about anything.” 

“Oh! that. Well — I daresay,” returns she. 

“ But a child like you ! ” says he, regarding her ear- 
nestly, his kind gray eyes full of interest. “ What a view 
to take of life ! ” 

“ The best view.” 

“ Oh, no ! To be indifferent at your age, is to be miser- 
able later on. One must have a belief in something. It is 
necessary.” 

“You would have me bow down to care then,” says she, 

“ carking care ! ” 

“I would indeed. Bather than see you care for 
nothing.” 

“Yet ‘ Care’s an enemy to life.’ Would you have me 
make friends with life’s enemy ? ” 

“I would have you be true to your own self,” says 
he gently. He pauses, and then — “ All this is mere talk. 
What I really dread for you, is that you should care — 
too much.” \ 

A quick flush warms her face, then dies away again, 
leaving it, if possible, paler than before. Her dark eyes 
shine like stars in the pallor of their surroundings. 

“Dread nothing for me,” says she slowly, her eyes 
upon the ground. “ Why should you think of me at all ? 


KOBA CnmJSfA. 


77 


Believe me, it is my greatest desire, that neither you, nor 
any other person, should ever waste a moment’s thought 
upon me.” 

“ I was wrong,” says he in a tone as low as her own. 
“ I should not have ventured so far. I should not have 
spoken at all. I have only one excuse- ” He pauses. 

Unfortunately I cannot get you out of my mind,” says 
he. 

Something in this — who can tell what? — amuses Nora. 
All at once she laughs — delightfully, merrily. She glances 
at him from under her lids. It is a little laugh that hardly 
conveys its full meaning, but to Carnegie it is sweet. It 
is at all events an assurance that if his love is of no impor- 
tance to her, it is certainly not an offence ! 

You ought to correct your mind,” says she, ‘‘it seems 
terribly from under control ! ” 

At this he laughs too, as if compelled to it, by the pretty 
maliciousness of hers. It occurs to her, looking at him, 
that perhaps, after all, he is younger than they say. 

“Well, I shall not presume to criticize you again,” says 
he. “ I shall, I believe, be even afraid to look at you, after 
that last dreadful glance you gave me. I have even my 
doubts about saying something to you.” 

“ What is it ? ” asks she. 

“You give me leave to speak then ? ” 

“Yes. Do I look like a Gorgon?” says she. Again 
she gives him a little smile from beneath her lowered lids. 
To his own future sorrow, he has helped her to forget — 
and the spirit of coquetry that warms the heart of all 
women is now awake in hers. 

“ Is that a question ? ” asks he. “ If so I refuse to an- 
swer it. No, you shall answer one of mine instead. Sir 
Fell has asked me to go up to Dunmore some evening, to 
have a cigar with him. If I go, shall I see you — and your 
sister?” The latter part of this sentence is a palpable 
addition. 

“ Certainly,” says Nora. She hesitates, as if uncertain 
and a little ashamed. “ He did not ask you to dinner ? ” 

“ No. To come up later on, and have a smoke with 
him. It is a usual thing,” says he quickly. 

“ Not here. Not in the country. But, after all,” stead- 
ily, “I am glad he did not ask you to dinner. We — we 
have no cook.” 


78 


l^OUA cnElNA. 


“I don’t think I should mind about that,” says he. 
‘‘ What I do mind is, whether you would like me to come, 
and whether, if I do come, I shall see you.” 

‘‘We shall be very glad to see you,” says Nora, with a 
politeness that renders him miserable. 

“ That is what you would say to any one. After all, I sup- 
pose I am any one. Well, I may come then, and when ? ” 

“ As soon as you like.” 

“ Really ? Y ou mean it ? I shall take you at your word,” 
says he. He is looking at her, and something in her face 
checks him as he would have gone on with his speech. 
Her brows have contracted, her eyes are gazing in a strange 
fashion towards the corner beyond ; almost instantly, how- 
ever — even as he looks at her — her expression changes, she 
turns to him smiling, radiant, her lips and eyes alight with 
friendly feeling. Puzzled, bewildered, Carnegie looks back 
at her. 

“Yes. Come; come soon! Is not that kind? Have 
you nothing to say to me noiGf'' cries she petulantly — 
still smiling, still evidently eager to be gay — feverishly 
gay. Driven by some occult feeling, Carnegie lets his eyes 
travel towards the walk round the lake. There before 
him are two people turning the corner. 

They are Ferris and Mrs. Vancourt. 

“ Nothing,” says Carnegie slowly. 

“Well, Til say something,” says she, “if you will not. 
Have you not thought that I want my tea ? Come.” She 
has been smiling at him all the time, but now she makes 
a little movement towards him, and taps him lightly on 
the arm ; it is the friendliest little gesture, and thrills him, 
though he knows well the reason for it. Her slight fingers 
linger on his arm — her lovely eyes are smiling into his ; 
it occurs to him that her heart is breaking. 


MObA cbjeina. 


79 


CHAPTER XIV. 

“ Ah ! my heart is weary waiting, 

Waiting for the May, 

Waiting for the pleasant rambles. 

Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles, 

With the woodbine alternating. 

Scent the dewy way. 

Ah ! my heart is weary waiting. 

Waiting for the May.” 

The long, sweet, lovely day has waned to its end. Xow 
Death claims it. The light is fast dying away, and only 
a delicate twilight reigns. Already a little, pale, sweet 
moon — a little moon just born — is smiling overhead. 

Yet, even now, the last memories of a glorious sunset 
may be caught, down there to the west, where the river 
flows. Bank upon bank of cloud one sees — steel-gray, 
with blacker touches here and there — and through them 
gleams of fierce crimson, as though the sun is dying hard, 
and valiantly fighting his way inch by inch — second by 
second. On the small stream below, on field and tree, 
and banks, this rich red glow lies quivering. 

Here, in the old flower garden, where the silver-san- 
dalled shadows ” lie so lightly, the last faint chirpings of 
the sleepy birds can still be heard, with the vague fiut- 
terings of their wings, as they seek out a leafy resting- 
place to spend the night. Not yet, however, have the 
little heads gone beneath the wings — the music of their 
twitterings still stirs the silent air, broken only by them, 
and the soft dropping of the water over the shining stones 
in the little streamlet in the wood. 

The tall elms, and spreading beeches, show dark against 
the sky, blotting out, in certain places, the pale young 
moon, that looks like one ‘‘born out of due time,” so 
faint, so vague it shows in the still lingering daylight. 
A heavy odor as of dying flowers is on the aii*. 

“ Are you really determined to meet him this evening, 
Nora?” asks Sophie, after a longer silence than usual. 
The two girls are pacing up and down the gravelled paths, 
slowly, thoughtfully, as befits the stillness of the even- 
ing. They seem quite in unison with it, indeed, in their 


80 


NOItA CBEmA. 


white frocks and bare arms, and the little soft lace frills 
that lie about their snowy throats. Such old frocks, such 
older laces, but such youthful arms and throats. 

Dinner, always a trial of strength to them at Dunmore, 
is now mercifully at an end. S^ir Fell, as is his happy 
wont, has betaken himself to his cigars (the best that can 
be had)* — his brandy (not to be questioned) — and his many 
thoughts — which indeed would leave themselves much 
open to question, could they be seen in black and white 
— so that the girls are free to wander where they choose 
at their own sweet will. 

“ I am never determined, I think,” says Nora, with a 
little smile that is sweet, but has yet something of self- 
scorn in it. “ I wish I could be. I should not then be so 
everlastingly frightened at what other people would say. 
But — I should like to go, Sophie.” There is a distinct 
craving for sympathy in this last. “ I — I said I would.” 

‘‘I know what that means,” says Sophie, shortly. 
“ ‘ What has a gentleman but his word ? ’ and so on. I 
suppose it has never occurred to you that it is pretty late.” 

Even as she speaks, the old clock in the tower rings 
out the quarter to nine. 

“We very often go down to the little wood at this 
hour,” says Nora. 

“ Yes, often. But to meet some one ? ” 

“ It is only to meet Cyril ! I told him I should be there. 
And to bring him to the bridge, and then stay away — 
that would be rude, wouldn’t it ? ” asks she timidly. 

“ Better be rude than foolish,” says Sophie brusquely. 

“ But how foolish ? You will be with me ? ” 

“Of course I shall go with you,” says Sophie. “You 

know I would go with you anywhere, but ” She 

pauses. “ I wish you did not care so much for Cyril. I 
do wish that, Nolly, though it makes you angry. I wish, 
too, and this,” — with an anxious glance at her — “will 
make you more angry — that you did care for Mr. Car- 
negie.” 

“ What nonsense ! ” says Nora. “ Mr. Carnegie ! Why 
do you drag him into this discussion ? Why, he cares for 
me as little as I care for him.” 

“ How can you say that, Nora ! ” says Sophie, who is a 
terribly downright person, and with a distinctly well- 
balanced head upon her shoulders. “Do you think I 


JS^OBA CBMJSfA. 


81 


couldn’t see all day how things were going on ? Why, of 
course, every one saw it all. Every bit of it. Mr. 
Carnegie simply devoted himself to you. He followed 
you about from pillar to post. He thought of nobody but 
you. In my opinion,” — solemnly — “he sa%o nobody but 
you! Not that I would impugn his eyesight. In my 
opinion, again, it is excellent ! ” 

“ You are partial,” says Nora. “It maybe an excellent 
thing to be blind when one loves. Tradition leads that 
way — but I prefer to be seen and judged, and put on my 
merits, and so chosen.” 

“ Few would refuse you at that rate, Nora,” says her 
sister, but very sadly. “ There are other things, however ! 
Things that people — men — would rather have, than 
beauty of soul and body.” 

“ One would think man was your natural enemy,” says 
Nora, with a rather wan smile. “How you abuse him. 
What is it then that man would rather have than beauty 
of soul and body ? ” 

“Money!” says Sophie, distinctly. Yet within her, 
she feels as if a knife had been drawn across her heart. 

“Money ! ” says Nora. She looks full at her sister, and 
then turns aside and, catching at a fuchsia-bush, pulls its 
flowers to pieces. 

“ Money ! ” repeats she presently — she drops all the 
poor fuchsia blossoms on the ground. “You are thinking 
of something, Sophie ! You are meaning something. Say 
it ! Say it ! Say what you mean ! ” 

“Well, I will,” says Sophie, desperately. “I think — I 
think, darling — (Oh! doiHt be angry with me, Nolly), I 
think you ought to give up Cyril.” 

There is a long silence. Even the twittering of the 
birds has ceased. They have gone to sleep. Only these 
two hearts, as it seems to themselves, are wide awake in 
all this sweet, dewy, lovely evening. Nora is the first to 
speak. She moves back from her sister. She even 
waves her a little aside. 

“You have thought that for so long,” says she, “that 
your words do not impress me. I know you have always 
hated poor Cyril.” 

“But why — but why?” asks Sophie. “You seem to 
know everything — Do you know that ? Have you ever 
asked yourself why I hated him ? ” 


82 


NotiA cnmKA. 


Nora hesitates ; defiant as her attitude has 
been up to this, she now shrinks a little from the leply 
she has provoked. 

Because he is false,” says Sophie, plainly. “ I told 
you, awhile ago, that I did not know whether I liked or 
disliked him; but now, I know. He is uncertain. He is 
like the wind. He wavers ; even Zove could not compel 
him to stand steady.” 

‘‘ You must have some reason for saying all this,” says 
Nora, who has been regarding her and listening to her 
with suppressed agitation. 

“Well, I have,” says Sophie. “You can forgive me, or 
love me, or hate me for it, as you will — but I shall say 
now what is in my heart.” 

“ A moment ! ” says Nora, checking her. “ Is it what is 
in y'our heart, or in the heart of Denis?” 

“ That is unworthy of you,” says Sophie slowly. 
“ There is no one on earth with whom I would discuss 
^jou. Surely, Nora, you believe that.” 

“ Oh ! I do,” cries Nora remorsefully. “ I do, indeed. 
Go on, Sophie, say what you want to say ; I shall not 
misjudge you again.” 

“ Well ! There is Mrs. Yancourt,” says Sophie bluntly, 
armed for this strife with fresh accoutrements, welded 
out of Nora’s sneer of a moment since. In very fact her 
soul is bleeding for her sister, but to help her — to savehev 
— must lead both of them through sorry quagmires. 

“ Mrs. Yancourt! Why should I think of her? ” Poor 
Nora’s stock of courage all at once runs very low. 

“ Because ! ” Sophie stops dead short — her amount of 
courage runs even lower. All at once she feels as if she 
is being brutal to some one, and that one Nora, her sister 
— her darling — her pretty Noll. Yet to draw back would 
be cowardly, when she knows that Nora’s eyes should be 
opened by some one. How she wishes, however, that she 
was not that one. “You must remember, Nora,” says 
she, “that you yourself said things about her — hinted 
things, I mean, about her and Cyril, the other day in the 
orchard. Now, what if those things be true ?” 

“ They are not true,” says Nora coldly. “ And I regret 
I ever mentioned her name to you. If I had known that 
every silly word I ever said was going to be remembered 
against me, and quoted years afterwards ” 


NOEA CEEINA. 


83 


‘‘ Years ? Why it was the other day ” 

“It is all the same” — this most unjustly. “At all 
events, had I known, I should never have spoken. And 
besides,” turning passionately upon her, with pale cheeks, 
and growing eyes that seem to fill the whole of the small 
delicate face, “you 7mist have understood then that I 
hardly knew what I was saying, that Sir Fell had en- 
raged me, and that — that ” 

“ I wish you had meant it,” says Sophie, a little vehe- 
ment in turn ; then, suddenly turning to her, “What on 
earth do you see in him ? ” says she. 

Now this is unwise. This is the signal for battle. One 
should never in strained situations ask a leading ques- 
tion. It generally means bloodshed later on — in this case, 
it means bloodshed on the spot. 

“ He is handsome at all events ! ” says Nora promptly — 
and I regret to say spitefully. Her heart, poor child, at 
this moment, is full of bitterness. Denis Butler is far 
from handsome. 

“ Certainly,” acquiesces Sophie equably, though her own 
spirit is rising. “ He is one of the handsomest people I 

know — whilst Denis ” she stops, and all at once, the 

comic side of the affair coming to her, she laughs, a quick 
hearty laugh that drives out all ill-temper. “ And Denis 
is the ugliest. But extremes meet you know, and to me, 
Denis is so ugly, that he borders upon beauty, whilst 
Cyril is so beautiful that (to me again on/y, of course) he 
is positively ugly. And, besides, as Denis says -” 

“ Oh ! Bother Denis ! ” says Nora, losing all patience 
now, and shrugging up one shoulder — the one nearest to 
Sophie. “ I am sick of Denis ! It is Denis this, and Denis 
that, and Denis the other thing, all over the place ; morn- 
ing, noon, and night. jDo try and get an original idea. 
One of your own — one at all events that doesn’t belong to 
Denis.” 

“ Poor Denis ! ” says Sophie, in a very soft little tone. 
She pauses. And then : “Do you know, Nora, that Denis 
loves you ? ” 

“ I don’t care,” says Nora violently. “ I hate him — I 

hate everybody, I think ” she stops, and all at once 

bursts into tears. “ Oh, no, Sophie ! Oh, no! ” sobs she, 
covering her face with one hand and holding out the other 
to Sophie. “ I am ^ wretch 5 1 am not worth the love you 


84 


NOBA CREINA, 


give me. You,” as Sophie’s strong fond arms close round 
her, “you will give me up soon. 1 know you will ! But 
I used to be good-natured, Sophie — usen’t I now ? And 
really, ducky, I didn’t mean a bit I said about Denis. I 
am as fond of him as I can be, and — I think him quite 
good-looking ! I don’t know how I could have called him 
ugly, except that I was in such a temper ; and really no- 
body would think of his nose, when they look into liis eyes.” 

“ I do,” says Sophie, patting her valiantly on the back, 
and giving her a fond little hug. “I always think of his 
nose. It’s a frightf ul nose ! Why couldnH he have grown 
a better one when he was about it ? But I’ve forgiven 
him that. And,” here she returns to her normal state, 
and her sense of fun, and leaning back from Nora, shakes 
her to and fro gaily, whilst a little irrepressible ripple of 
laughter widens her lips, “ and I’m glad you have too.” 

“ It’s a heavenly nose ! ” says Nora, giving way to mirth 
also ; indeed poor Butler’s nose, as has been already 
hinted, aims towards the sky. “And you know I regard 
Denis as my dearest friend.” 

“No more of this,” cries Sophie gaily. “ Do you want 
to madden me with jealousy ? Come. If you are going 
down to the bridge, it is time we started.” 

“ You will come, then?” cries Nora eagerly. 

“ Yes ; under protest,” says Sophie laughing. She tucks 
her arm into her sister’s and together they go towards the 
lawn, past Sir Fell’s smoking-room, and down presently 
into the little wood below, where the river runs now, clad 
in mists and twilight dim. 


CHAPTER XV. 

“ Many a lover hath the rose, 

When June’s musk-wind breathes and blows ; 

And in many a bower is heard 
Her sweet praise from bee and bird. 

Through the gold hours dreameth she, 

In her warm heart passionately ; 

Her fair face, hung languid- wise, 

O ! her breath of honey and spice !” — Irish Ballad, 

The little river is running sweet and low, the tiny music 
of it ing^king chinks in the silent air. Every corner seems 


NOB A CBEINA. 


85 


rich with shad>jws, and the waving branches of the trees 
increase the blackness of them. Over everything, indeed, 

“ Dewy fingers draw 
The gradual dusky veil.” 

All is silence — and only the little stream runs elo- 
quent. 

It is dark down here, isn’t it? ” says Nora, as the two 
girls wend their way through lawn and heavy grass, still 
uncut, and waiting to be made into hay, to the still wood 
beyond. 

“ It is always dark where the shadows lie,” says Sophie, 
who, having gone in for it, is determined to see the whole 
matter through with a high courage. 

‘‘ Perhaps,” says Nora. She is evidently rather fright- 
ened, and, at this last moment, she pushes her hand 
through Sophie’s arm as if desirous of taking strength 
from her. “ But — if he shouldn’t be here, Sophie ? ” 

“ Then let us be thankful for small mercies,” is on the 
tip of Sophie’s tongue ; but, doubtless, a sense of grace 
lays an embargo on it. 

‘‘He is sure to be here,” says she, “and,” pointing 
lightly downwards, “ what is that upon the bridge ? A 
figure, surely ! ” 

“ A figure ! ” says Nora. She takes a little eager step 
forward, and then, as if recollecting herself, and feeling 
ashamed of having betrayed her emotion so openly, she 
suddenly drops into a pace that would have distinguished 
a funeral, and swings a little branch she holds from side 
to side, as if indifferent to all things. 

“Nora! ” says Sophie, taking no notice of this fiagrant 
attempt at indifference, “ I suppose you will want me to 
go away when you meet him ? ” 

“Him?” 

“Oh! stuff!” says Sophie. “As if you can’t see him 
on the bridge as well as I can. He’s big enough for even 
a bat to see by this light. Go on ! Am I to stay when we 
meet him, or not ? ” 

“Oh, I don’t know!” says Nora, coloring. “What 
do you think, Sophie ? What would you do ? ” 

“ I should tell you to get out,” says Sophie promptly. 
“ I should loathe the girl who sat me out when I was with 
the man I loved — when ” — honestly — “ I was with Denis, 


86 


XORA CREIXA. 


SO I shall leave you alone presently, when I have saiii, 
‘ How d'ye do?’ to Cyril.” 

“ Very well,” saysXoni. “I shouldn't mind your Ixnng: 
there all the time, Sophie — I ” — eagerly — '' shoukln't 
rmllj/, only — there is something I want to say to Cyril — 
to ask him about, and — I could do it easier, if " 

“ All right, Nolly. You needn't put it on paj^er for me," 
says Sophie, who understands perfectly all about it. Theiv 
is a little pang at her heart as she reinembei's the expres- 
sion in Nora’s eyes as Mrs. Vaneourt had carried off Cyril 
that afternoon. How is he going to explain that to her 
now? What plausible excuse is on his ready tongue. 
Sophie stifles a sigh, and slipping her arm into Nora's, 
goes briskly forward. 

It is glowing very dark down here amongst the trees ? 
the pale little moon is not strong enough to pierce through 
the heavy branches, and on the brid^ itself the shadows 
lie heaviest. The figure on tlie bridge has not stirred 
since first the girls saw it, and is still leaning over the 
wooden railing as if lost in thought or fascinated by the 
quick, sweet rushing of the little river below him. It is 
a broad, yet eager little river, with here and there calm 
stretches where large lily leaves lie tossing lazily, and 
where the banks are crowded with the yellow water iris, 
the flower that children call the flag,'’ and the leaves of 
which they take and bend and form into miniature fleets, 
and with great hopes, and excitement that thrills their 
little bursting hearts, sail them down almost every river 
m the kingdom. 

“ That you, Cyril ? ” calls Sophie, as they draw nearer, 
seeing that Ferris has not turned. Her voice does not 
reach him evidently, as still he does not stir. 

“I — is it he at all?” asks Nora nervously, stopping 
and pulling a little at Sophie's arm. I — I think Til go 
back.” 

“ Well, perhaps it will be better,” says Sophie, joyfully 
acceding to this suggestion. ‘‘ I daresay he is in one of 
his tantrums. You can see him to-morrow, you know.'' 

“ To-morrow! It is a long way off,” says Nora — a 
sudden feeling coming to her that she dare not face the 
terrible, interminable sleepless night, without hearing 
him say he does not care for Mrs, Vaneourt. ‘-No, let us 
go on,” 


NORA CBEINA. 


87 


“ As you will,” says Sophie, shrugging her shoulders. 
“ Shall 1 call him again? Or shall we announce our pres- 
ence in a joyful, surprise, sort of way, by chucking him 
into the river?” Sophie is feeling a little vicious. 

“ Call out again,” says Nora. 

So Sophie says “ Cyril ” at the top of her lungs this 
time, and with such acumen, that if the quiet figure on 
the bridge had been one of the Seven Sleepers he must 
have awakened. 

He starts at once into a standing position, and, seeing 
them, comes quickly forward into the more open light 
where they are awaiting him. 

This is too much good fortune ! ” says a clear, strong 
voice — a voice, however, unexpected. Nora’s hand tight- 
ens upon her sister’s arm. She grows very pale. A 
sense of relief, absorbed, however, by a bitter disappoint- 
ment, renders her faint. 

It is not Cyril. It is Mr. Carnegie ! 

He had heard Sophie’s voice, but not the word she 
used. He comes up to them radiant. It occurs to 
Sophie once again that he is so good to look at, so kindly, 
so reliable, so clea7i / Sophie has always stuck to it, even 
to the disparagement of Denis, that St. John Carnegie is 
the cleanest-looking man she knows. 

“Oh! Mr. Carnegie? Fancy seeing gou here,” says 
she gaily, covering Nora’s retreat — Nora, who is pale, 
and silent, and miserable. “ We had no idea our river, 
magnificent as it is, had been already made a mark for 
tourists. After this, we shall advertise it largely, and 
make our fortunes.” 

“ It is a delightful little river, in spite of your sneers,” 
says Carnegie, shaking hands with both girls, and letting 
his eyes rest searchingly on Nora. “ I feel I ought to 
explain why I am now here, admirmg it. Your sister ” — • 
always looking at Nora, whose eyes are on the ground, 
and whose small, lovely face is looking exquisite in the 
growing moonlight, like a lily-bud half-opened — “ was 
good enough to say I might come up to Dunmore anj^- 
evening I liked to see — Sir Fell. She said . . . you did 
say so, did you not ? ” with an imperative glance at 
Nora, that compels her to raise her head, and give him a 
little, pale smile and a glance of question. “ That I might 
Qpme soon^ so I have come to-night. It ” — looking now 


88 


NOBA CBEINA. 


full at Sophie, as if asking her to comprehend his mean- 
ing to its fullest — “ was as soon as ever I could.” 

‘‘ It could not be too soon,” returns Sophie hospitably, 
and as cheerfully as she can make it, with a vision of an 
approaching Cyril in the background. If he should come 
now! What future happy plans for Nora’s welfare may 
it not spoil ? Providentially Mr. Carnegie had not under- 
stood her when she cried “Cyril” in that quick, angry 
tone, but if Ferris should now appear, he, Mr. Carnegie, 
cannot fail to associate his coming with thefr presence 
here in this old wood at this late hour. 

She turns her head nervously, and there, coming 
towards the bridge from the far side, is some one ; it is 
useless to try to decide herself even for a moment — (and 
only a moment is given) — it is Cyril. 

He is here indeed, before she has time to think of what 
will be the best thing to say — for Nora. 

Ferris has come up to them hurriedly, his overcoat is a 
little open, and his white shirt can be seen. He is a little 
breathless — evidently he had got up from dinner in a 
hurry, and has run the best part of the way here. He 
shakes hands with Sophie (who receives him coldly), and 
gives a casual nod to Carnegie without looking at him — 
his gaze is riveted on Nora. 

To find her here, and with Carnegie 1 Carnegie of all 
men ! His heart, false and selfish as it is, grows hot, and 
a mad jealousy burns within his veins. Though half-de- 
termined to abandon her, to give up this young sweet 
life, so wholly given to him, he yet resents the idea of 
her allowing even one thought of hers to wander to an- 
other. What adds to the fury that possesses him is the 
knowledge that he cannot declare himself to Carnegie, 
whom he detests, as a suitor for Nora’s hand. His own 
hands are too far tied for that, and a mere word^ would 
be dangerous, if drifted back to Eldon Vancourt later on. 
Eldon, who is notoriously unforgiving even through her 
sprightliness, and as vindictive as she is lively. His rage 
now mounts even higher, as he acknowledges to himself 
the necessity of explaining to Carnegie the fact of his 
being here at this hour. It is almost imperative that 
Carnegie should be led afield a bit, as to his, Ferris’s, 
relations with Nora. A brilliant idea occurs to him. 


NORA CREINA. 


89 


“ You look as if you had been running,” said Sophie in- 
nocently, if very unpleasantly. 

Yes, I was in a hurry,” says Ferris calmly. ‘‘Mrs. 
V^ancourt asked me to give your sister a message.” 

Nora, whose face is fortunately hidden by the dusk, 
lifts her eyes and looks at him ; Carnegie, looking too, 
feels a sudden lightness of heart. After all, perhaps, 
there was nothing in it. If Ferris can so openly speak 
of Mrs. Yancourt to Nora — if he can declare himself 
her messenger — so altogether at her beck and call, the 
girl cannot be blind to the fact of his open attentions to 
the pretty widow. 

Sophie laughs outright. 

“ Mrs. Yancourt has chosen a swift Mercury,” says she. 
“And a message — whose message? One from her or 
from you ? ” 

“From Mrs. Yancourt, of course,” says Nora. She 
takes her arm out of Sophie’s, and goes up to Ferris. 
“ What can I do for Mrs. Yancourt ? ” says she. 

Instinctively, Sophie and Carnegie turn and go towards 
the bridge once more, leaving the other two face to face, 
silent, expectant, waiting until they can be sure of pri- 
vacy, to say what it is pain and grief to one of them, at all 
events, to have to say, but what would be greater pain 
still to hold back — as for the other, his blue eyes are black 
with passion. 


CHAPTER XYI. 

“ The high-bred dames of Dublin town 
Are rich and fair, 

With wavy plume and silken gown 
And stately air ; 

Can plumes compare thy dark brown hair ? 

Can silks thy neck of snow, 

Or measured pace thine artless grace ? 

Mo craoihhin cno^ 

When harebells scarcely show thy trace. 

Mo craoihhin cnoN 

— Irish Ballad. 

“ So this is how I find you,” says he in a low tone, but 
one replete with rage. He pushes away the little hand 
she has extended to him. 


90 


NORA CRETNA. 


« Cyril ? ” says she, and then stands still, smoothing im* 
consciously the hand he has hurt in his anger. Not that 
she feels the pain of it— there is a pain in her heart so 

greater far. ‘‘You mean ? ” asks she. She has come 

here, miserable, distrustful, wretched in the thought that 
she is going to find some fault in him, and here, lo ! the 
tables are turned, and it is she who is being brought be- 
fore the bar. ‘‘You mean ?” asks she, as if bewil- 

dered. 

‘‘ You know well what T mean,” exclaims he violently. 
“ What is that fellow doing here, at this hour ? ” 

‘‘ What? Who?” She stops as if unable to goon. 
His manner terrifies her. 

“ Don’t overdo it, Nora ! ” says he with a nasty sneer. 
“ I’ll name him if you like. What brings Carnegie here ? 
You know who I mean by Carnegie, perhaps — or shall I 
describe him? He has an old name, and a handsome 
rent roll, and ” 

‘‘Don’t ! ” says Nora, in a low, but stirring tone. “He 
is here because ” 

“ Because you invited him ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ By your permission, then, if you must stick to the 
letter of the law ? ” 

“ Hardly,” says she ; she looks at him with a little 
touch of dignity that sits most sweetly on her, and deep- 
ens the beauty of her childish face. “ I do not think you 
ought to subject me to this,” says she. “You should not 
cross-examine like this, I think, but I cannot be happy 
till I tell you how it was.” Her voice breaks a little, 
but she conquers herself and goes on. “ Sir Fell, it seems 
had asked him to come up and have a smoke with him 
some evening; why, I don’t know, Sir Fell so seldom 
likes any one — and ” 

“ Don’t you ? ” interrupting with a harsh laugh, “Y Jo.” 

“ And ” — going on in her eager exculpation of herself 
as if not hearing, or, at all events, not heeding — “ Mr. 
Carnegie asked me this afternoon if he might come soon, 
and what could I say but ‘ yes ? ” 

“ What indeed, except ‘ no.’ ” 

“I could not say that, Cyril. You must see that.” 

“I see it indeed! I” — bitterly — “feel sure you will 
mver say ‘ no ’ to him ” 


J^OBA CBEINA, 


91 


“ You are unjust — ^you are absurd,” says the girl quickly, 
throwing out her hands a little. “ It was Sir Fell’s invi- 
tation, not mine. Had I said ‘no’ forever he would — 
he ” — doing justice in her honest soul even at this mo- 
ment to Carnegie’s good breeding — “ he might have come 
here all the same.” 

“You admit that,” says Ferris grimly. “So do I; I 
believe nothing would have kept him away from this — 
even though Sir Fell and his cigars (which, I allow, are 
excellent) had suddenly been transported to the North 
Pole.” 

“I think you ought to explain yourself,” says she 
calmly, but with a certain tension that communicates 
itself to him. 

“ Oh ! I daresay,” says he ; now that his first burst of 
anger has subsided ( the anger born of wounded vanity), 
it has occurred to him that there maybe wisdom (a hardly 
as yet defined wisdom) in keeping up his attitude. 
“ Well, I shall explain easily enough. Do you think it is 
pleasant for me to see you encouraging the attentions of 
any one ? And am I so blind that I can’t see that you are 
encouraging Carnegie ? Carnegie of all men ! A fellow 
old enough to be your father.” 

“ Mr. Carnegie is yiot old enough to be my father,” says 
Nora coldly, all her strength awake. “ But even if he 
were, what has that got to do with it ? ” She throws up 
her proud little head and turns upon him. “ What do 
you mean ? ” says she haughtily. How dare you speak of 
Mr. Carnegie to me in that way ? How dare you accuse 
me of inconstancy ! you — you ! to accuse me ! ” 

She stops ; she draws a deep and heavy breath — one 
borne of anguish, long suppressed ! 

“ Have I nothing to say ? ” she goes on in a stified 
tone. “ Oh ! all day long what have I endured ? You 
cannot know — who is there that will ever know ? But it 
was terrible.” She draws her hand over her brow, lifting 
the soft tresses lying on it — and sighs ! What a sigh. 

It goes even to his apology for a heart. 

“You evidently think I am in the wrong somewhere,” 
says he sullenly. “ If so, well,” with a certain courage, 
“ tell me how I am in the wrong. You speak to me as if 
I were the most inconstant devil alive, but you explain 
nothing. I suppose,” with a rather uneasy assumption of 


92 


nonA cnmNA. 


indifference, ‘‘ you are alluding to that walk I took with 
her to-day.” 

“ I don’t know what I am alluding to,” says Nora 
feverishly. “I know only that I am too wretched to 
live ; yes — that walk — and her look at me. I seem to see 
it all, over and over again. Her eyes, they seem to mock 
me, to deride me, but that is not all ” 

“ Good Heavens ! I must be a sinner above all the Gali- 
leans,” says he with an attempt at gaiety, but a darken- 
ing brow. “ What is the last heinous crime ? ” 

“ How could you have said that to them,” cries she, the 
culminating point reached at last. “ How could you ? 
Sophie — Sophie, who always distrusts you — what could 
she have thought. ‘A message from Mrs. Yancourt!’ 
Oh ! could you not have invented some other excuse — any 
excuse but that ! ” 

The extreme agony of her young voice for once dulls 
his fertile brain ; no explanation comes to his parted lips. 
He looks at her. 

“It hurts me,” says she, pressing her little hands 
against her bosom as if striving to crush down some actual 
physical pain that lies there. “ I can’t bear it ! Why — 
why did you make them think that she sent you on her 
errands? — an errand from her to me! Why did you 
make them believe you were such — friends with her? 
How am I to bear what Sophie will think — will say?” 

* “ I had to make some explanation,” says he gloomily. 

“ But why ? There was only Sophie — Sophie, who has 
imagined the truth for so long, and yet who has her doubts 
of you ” 

“There was Carnegie also, you must remember. He 
would be only too glad to put a spoke in my wheel. Do 
you think I can’t see how it is with him ? Look here,” 
almost savagely, “you speak of Sophie! You seem to 
blame me about the fact of our engagement being kept 
secret. Do you want to make it public ? ” 

“ Oh, no, no ! ” she shrinks a little, and puts up her 
hands as if to ward off something. “ I want to tell no- 
body except — except only Sophie. It — it is dreadful about 
Sophie! She never says anything, but I know she is 
always thinking things about you that cut me to the 
heart.” 

“ She thinks me dishonorable ? ” 


NonA CEMNA. 


93 

‘‘Yes, I am afraid so,” drooping her perfect head. “ But 
that is only because she doesn’t understand about us. 
Cyril — I must tell Sophie. I cannot go through much 
more of it. I cannot be silent any longer when she 
accuses you of — of ” 

She hesitates ; it is terrible to her to put the truth into 
words, though as yet she is far from knowing what the 
truth really is. 

‘‘ Well, tell her,” says Ferris sullenly. “ After all, why 
should it be concealed? It was more for your sake than 
for mine that I ever thought of being silent about our 
engagement.” 

“ For mine?” 

“ Certamly, for yours. Do you think Sir Fell would 
encourage a poor beggar like me as a suitor for one of his 
step-daughters ? I think he has proved to both our satis- 
factions that he would not. It was for your sake, there- 
fore, I desired silence. Though, for myself, it was neces- 
sary too. I ” he hesitates, “have some expectations ! ” 

“You?” Her tone is one of amazement, not of hope. 
She had never heard either from him or others that he 
had expectations from any quarter. 

“Is that so strange a thing? Yes. I have some ex- 
pectations. Very small, but every grain is something to ” 
— ^bitterly — “ a starving man.” If his mind has invented 
this lie through his intimacy with Mrs. Yancourt, and his 
expectations from an alliance with her, he himself is 
hardly aware of it, and yet — the whole thing is a lie. He 
has no expectations. He is merely anxious at this mo- 
ment to carry his point — to conceal his engagement with 
ISTora as long as possible. The engagement has already 
begun to be a sort of nightmare, yet he would not do away 
with it — with her — the dearest possession of his selfish 
heart. 

“ However,” says he, “ do as you will. Though my owm 
prospects may be ruined by an open declaration of our 
engagement, I have, of course, no right to consider them, 
when your happiness is in question.” 

“ Cyril ! ” 

“Well, I have told you how it is — that my people all 
think I ought to marry some one with money.” 

“ Your peoi3le ! ” ^ 

“ Oh, I have some people,” says he, with a dull sort of 


mUA CUMNA. 


94 

laugh. ‘‘ You speak as if you thought I had grown, like 
Topsy.” 

‘‘ I was only thinking that you had never mentioned 
them to me,” says she, smiling. “ At least, of course, I 
know of Lady Saggartmore, and the Stewarts and others, 
but of none to whom you owed allegiance or from whom 
anything was to be gained. I,” gently, “ did not mean to 
be rude.” 

“ Rude ! You rude ! ” says he. His tone is impulsive 
— it does her all justice, but he checks it: ‘‘You know 
what I think of you, Nora,” says he in a more measured 
manner. “ All 1 want you to understand is, that if my 
people knew me to be engaged to the best, the sweetest 
girl on earth, as,” with fine presence of mind and a charm- 
ing smile — “ I am — they would still resent it, if you had 
no money.” 

“I see,” says Nora slowly. She pauses. A sense of 
indignity has fallen upon her. To be rejected, refused, 
disdained by every one, even by these unknown people, is 
bitter to her, the more especially, perhaps, because they 
are his people. And then a fresh thought comes to her ! 
A dreadful thought ! Her pause grows prolonged, so long 
indeed, as to render Ferris uncomfortable. What is she 
thinking about ? *He knows at last. “ Mrs. Y ancourt has 
money,” says she, in a curious tone, and coldly. 

“Has she?” It is too dark for her to see the vivid 
color that dyes his face. He thanks— if not Heaven — at 
all events, some power for this blackness that covers him. 
His tone, however, is all it ought to be. “ What has Mrs. 
Vancourt to do with this discussion?” 

“Nothing, I hope,” says the girl coldly still — and then — 
“ It is only this,” says she, raising her dark expressive 
eyes to his. “If you want to marry Mrs. Yancourt, 
marry her ! and at once — do you hear ? — at once ! Marry 
her,” throwing off all disguise now, and letting the ex- 
pression in her blue eyes grow passionate — “before,” 
wildly, “ you hreah my heart ! ” 

“ Nora, take care,” says he, in a low tone, glancing to- 
wards the bridge where Sophie and Carnegie are stand 
ing. His first thought, indeed, is for them, and whethei 
they could possibly have heard her clear, soft tones, made 
clearer by the passion, the despair, that rings through 
them. “ What madness to talk like that ! ” says he. 


]!roBA cnmisrA. 


95 


How selfish you are.” (ITe^ to talk of selfishness !) 
“Y6u are always bringing your heart into your conversa- 
tion, as though there were no heart on earth but yours. 
Have I no heart ? Do I not suffer ? Have I no miserable 
thoughts — or fancies ? I tell you I am filled with them.” 

^ And I have only one ! ” says she. She is trembling. 
Her whole sweet body feels cold as ice. Kill it for me.” 
She turns to him, and holds out her hands. Say she is 
nothing to you,” cries she softly, but vehemently. “ Say 
it, Cyril. Say it ! ” 

‘‘ Less than nothing,” declares he promptly. It is quite 
a relief to him to be able to speak the truth at last ; yet 
there are arrilres ^96715^65 that make the truth a lie and 
cause him to curse himself for the saying of it. 

“ Oh ! ” cries she, and breaks into a little, low, half- 
wild, and wholly happy laugh. ‘‘ If that is so, and I 
have it from your own lips, nothing — nothing — nothing 
can matter ! ” 

“ Nothing ! ” repeats he stonily. 

‘‘And I may tell Sophie ? ” says she, laughing still, and 
looking at him with eyes filled full with tears. Heaven 
alone knows the meaning of those tears — whether born 
of joy, or bred of sorrow. 

“ You still persist about that ? ” asks he restively. 

“ It is for says she, nodding her ‘head gaily. “ To 

make her understand the dearness of you. And she Avill 
be silent, quite silent, if I tell her. Sophie is true as' 
steel. One could depend their life upon her. Cyril, 
darling ! say I may tell her.” 

“You are sure she is safe?” says he, unable to resist 
the pleading of the one pure love he knows, yet despising 
himself for his weakness the while. 

“ Oh, as sure as I am of ” she pauses, and laughs 

up at him, with a perfect trust, and love, and joy, “ of 
your love for me.” 

There is silence for a second, filled still by her pretty, 
happy laugh, and then 

“ Nora ! Nora ! ” cries he. He has taken her hands, he 
is pressing them with an almost painful force between his 
own. To the poor child this vehemence seems but an 
outpouring of his love for her ; then, the strain getting 
too great, he drops her little clinging fingers and makes 
a movement as if to depart. 


96 


NonA cnmnA. 


“ I must go, now,” says he, huskily. ‘‘ No. I cannot 
stay any longer. Good-night, good-night, my beloved ! ” 
There is real passion — real love in his voice, weak love 
made stronger by remorse! He pauses. He risks the 
chance that the two on the bridge yonder may see him 
(a small risk certainly), and taking one of her hands, again 
presses his lips to it. 

“ To-morrow ? ” whispers she, as a little question. 
He generally manages to see her every day one time or 
another. 

‘‘Not to-morrow! I have an arrangement for to- 
morrow with — I — Lady Saggartmore wants me to- 
morrow ! ” 

Another lie ! He presses her hand again, and leaves 
her. Walking past the bridge he calls “Good-night!” 
cheerily to the two upon it, and presently the growing 
darkness swallows him up. 

“Let us go back to Nora,” says Sophie to Carnegie. 


CHAPTER XVIL 

“ Youth must with time decay, 

Eileen Aroon! 

Beauty must fade away, 

Eileen Aroon! 

Castles are sacked in war. 

Chieftains are scattered far. 

Truth is a fixed star, 

Eileen Aroon ! ” 

“Well?” calls out Sophie cheerily, as they draw near 
to Nora. “ I hope you were able to be of some use to 
Mrs. Yancourt.” Her cheerfulness is somewhat affected, 
and it is a very anxious glance she casts at Nora as she 
comes up to her, but it has seemed to Sophie that it is 
her imperative duty to keep Nora’s mad infatuation for 
“that worthless Cyril” a secret from every one, and 
especially (though she has scarcely yet defined this 
thought) from Mr. Carnegie. 

It is on the tip of Nora’s tongue to cry aloud, “ There was 
no message ! ” but she checks herself in time. She would 
have given anything to be able to say this to Sophie, to 


NOBA CBMJSTA. 


97 


kill at once the contemptuous feeling towards Cyril she 
knows to be in her sister’s breast, but to say it before 
another — before Carnegie — is imx)ossible. She turns at 
once to the latter, ignoring Sophie’s question. 

‘‘ I have kept you waiting,” sa^^s she. “ I am so sorry. 
And you want to see Sir Fell. Come, let us hurry now, 
and make up for lost time.” 

‘‘ Do not hurry on my account,” says Carnegie, in his 
pleasantest tone. “ The night is glorious, and — there 
was no lost time.” 

“ A compliment to you, Sophie,” says Nora smiling. She 
is longing to be in her own room, to think, to look into 
her own heart and find out whether she is glad or sorry. 
Just now her mind is in a turmoil. There is one thought, 
however, that uprises, filling her with gladness — though 
he had hurt and in a sense betrayed her by that sugges- 
tion of his having been sent to her to-night by Mrs. Van- 
court — on Mrs. Vancourt’s business — but he had been 
jealous ! Oh, dear ! glad certainty ! He had hated the 
thought that Mr. Carnegie was there with her. Yes. He 
does love her, and her alone! 

She falls into silence and walks on, with her eyes gaz- 
ing straight before her, yet seeing nothing — not even the 
soft beauty of the growing night, the deepening moon, 
the swaying shadows, and the music behind them where 

“ In the gloamin’ o’ the wood 
The throstle whistled sweet.’ ’ 

Silently she walks along, her heart very full. No doubt 
her extreme preoccupation would have been even more 
noticeable had not Sophie rushed into the breach ; Sophie, 
whose whole desire is still to shield her. She feels im- 
patient with Nora, and even a little angry, but then she 
is Nora! To prevent Mr. Carnegie from noticing the 
girl’s taciturnity, she enters at once into an animated 
discussion with him on all things in heaven and earth. 

Sophie as a talker (I cannot say a converser) is un- 
rivalled. She stands alone ! She is the first thing to be 
heard in the morning, the last at night. From morn to 
dewy eve her tongue holds forth. In her own line she is 
splendid — she is untiring. 

Night alone is the one thing (when providentially it 
arrives), that silences her. Though, indeed, night itself 


98 


KORA CRMNA. 


would be of little use in that direction, were it not for the 
fact that at eleven o’clock sharp every one at Dunmore 
goes to bed, and, therefore, no one is left to listen to her. 
Then, perforce, she sleeps — only to rise on the morrow 
as full of words as though she had been muzzled for a 
fortnight. 

Just now, having been eloquent over the afternoon 
spent at Castle Saggart, she pauses to take breath — a 
pause that gives Mr. Carnegie a chance of putting in a 
word. 

“ Shall I see you at the Kinsellas’ on Thursday ? ” asks 
he. His eyes are fixed on Nora. Will she never speak? 
Of what is she thinking ? 

“ I think so,” says Sophie. “ Sir Fell has at last given 
us permission to go there.” 

“At last?” He is still looking at Nora. How beauti- 
ful she is in the faint moonlight. How charming is her 
air, walking slowly thus, with head uplifted, and that 
strange far-off look in her eyes. 

“ O, tell me less, or tell me more, 

Sweet eyes with mystery at the core!” 

How slender, how exquisite are the lines of her childish 
figure. There is an unmistakable touch of race about 
her — of old family, that goes prettily, if curiously, with 
her fragility, and gives her a certain cachet. Whilst 
listening to Sophie’s chatter he is telling himself that he 
has never in all his life seen any one the least bit 
like Nora. He has begun to think of her as “Nora.” 

“Well you see,” says Sophie, “the Kinsellas! We 
have never been allowed to go there before. They,” she 
laughs with some embarrassment, “ they are not like us. 
Not one of us at all.” 

“ No. One can see that ! ” 

“ Though I like them,” says Sophie, quickly, loyally. 
“ I think old Mr. Kinsella the dearest old man in the 
world ; and so funny. Oh ! how he makes me laugh.” 
She laughs gaily as she speaks. “ And if his father did 
keep a shop long ages ago in this very town, and if his 
son helped him, I don’t see a bit why we should not know 
them now — now,” candidly, “ when he is very rich, and 
gives such delightful parties.” 

“ So Peter’s grandfather kept a shop,” says Mr. Carnegie, 


NOBA CBEINA, 99 

laughing too. “ Poor Peter ! That must be a sorry recol- 
lection for him.” 

“ Oh ! Peter. He is so silly ! ” says Sophie. “ He does 
nothing, from morning till night, but talk of his titled 
acquaintances and propose to Nora!” 

“ What ? ” Mr. Carnegie stares. 

“Eh?” says Nora, who has heard her name mentioned. 

“I am just telling Mr. Carnegie about Peter Kinsella,” 
says Sophie, who is now laughing immoderately. “Don’t 
deny it, Nolly, you know you can’t. He does ask you to 
marry him every time he sees you, doesn’t he ? ” 

“ Sophie,” says Nora, and then — catching the infection 
of their laughter, which indeed is hard to resist, and 
happy with this fresh belief in Cyril’s love for her, 
warm within her heart — she, too, begins to laugh, lightly, 
happily. 

Carnegie is still staring at her, and something in his 
expression wakes a sense of mischief in her. She leans 
towards him. 

“ Sometimes he forgets ! ” she says. “ Sometimes he 
lacks opportunity ! But, as a rule, I can depend upon 
him. To-day he had no chance — but I am sure he will 
make up for that on Thursday by proposing to me 
twice ! ” 

Her laughter is a revelation to Carnegie. It rings, 
sweet and clear, like the rushing of a merry stream. It 
is quick with music — music from the heart. He had not 
thought she could have laughed like that. She had 
always seemed to him a little inclined to melancholy — he 
has seen her, however, very seldom, and generally when 
Ferris was on the spot; the latter’s love for her had not 
been for her good, or for her happiness. It had had from 
the very first a depressing influence upon her. It meant 
a constant strain — an expectation of evil — a joy tinged 
with terror — a delight destroyed by distrust. 

It occurs to Carnegie now, that nature had meant her 
to be intensely happy. The life given to her had been 
richer, freer, than is given to most ; the life of some, wild 
joyous thing — a bird, perhaps ! But that life had been 
trapped — stilled ! By whom ? Carnegie’s thoughts fly at 
once to Sir Fell, to the step-father ! Is it possible that he 
is unkind to these two children ? Oh ! to be able to take 
Nora away from all things hurtful — saddening? 


100 


NOB A CBEINA, 


His heart gives a wild bound ! Perhaps until this mo- 
ment he had not understood how it is with him. 

“You look surprised,” says Nora, with a touch of 
coquetry. 

“ Well — I am,” returns he promptly, “at his presump- 
tion. And so his father kept a shop ? ” 

“ Long years ago,” says Nora airily. “ That rather adds 
to Peter’s charms I think, myself.” 

“There isn’t a doubt about it,” says Sophie, who 
cannot keep silence any longer. “ And his grandpapa 
too ! ” 

“ He’s not so verj/ bad, you see,” says Nora, who seems 
in wild spirits — a sort of reaction, perhaps. “ He had a 
grandfather ! ” 

“I’ll tell you who knows more than any one about 
them,” says Sophie. “Daddledy. You know old Dad- 
dledy — don’t you?” 

“ I think so. An old servant of yours ? ” 

“Yes. He knows you at all events — and the Kinsellas 
also. Like all the Irish peasants, Daddledy is an aristo- 
crat to his finger tips. He loathes anything but the very 
creme de la creme, A parvenu is an abomination in his 
sight — a nouveau riche an offence ! He hates the Kinsellas, 
needless to say.” 

“So like that class,” says Carnegie; “they pretend 
to despise the ‘ gentry,’ as they call them, yet in their 
souls they cleave to them. Upon no' one have they less 
mercy than upon the man who rises from their own ranks, 
and presumes, through power of money, to lord it over 
them. Him they detest and despise. Truly, they are a 
strange nation ! Well — in spite of the shop — I confess, I 
like old Kinsella.” 

“ So do I,” says Nora. “ If he kept twenty shops, I 
should still love old Mr. Kinsella.” 

“ Happy old man ! ” says Carnegie ; he laughs as . he 
says it, but there is considerable earnestness in his man- 
ner. Earnestness completely thrown away ! 

“ Oh ! twenty shops ! That would clear the horizon at 
once,” says Sophie. “ The man who owns twenty shops 
would be adored by every one.” 

“Well, I suppose Mr. Kinsella must have had twenty 
in America,” says Nora; “or else he could not have come 


NORA CREINA, 


101 


home so rich as he is. Though, I believe, it wasn’t shops 
there, it was a mine.” 

He struck ile, one way or another, at all events,” says 
Sophie, “ and came back to Saggart with the proceeds — 
bought up Carnieen (they have rechristened it ‘The 
Abbey’), and have settled down almost within view of the 
grandfather’s shop ! ” 

“ They say murderers always revisit the scene of their 
crime,” says Carnegie. 

“ I don’t think Mr. Kinsella minds much about the shop,” 
says Sophie. “ But Peter ! It is like the proverbial red 
rag to Peter ! When first he came back he couldn’t be 
got to remember anything about the town. There is a 
grocery place there called Pirn’s ; and somebody asked Peter 
on his return if he dealt at Pirn’s. Peter looked at him 
‘ And where is Bim's ? ’ asked he.” 

“ Never mind. I like Peter too,” says Nora. 

“ So you ought. As I have hinted — you would be the 
most ungrateful girl alive if you didn’t.” 

“Do all your sister’s suitors fare badly at her hands?” 
asks Carnegie lightly ; apparently indifferently. He is 
smiling, but he is watching Nora. 

“Not all,” says Sophie gaily. “But as a rule she is 
hard-hearted.” 

Carnegie pauses, as if he would have asked another 
question, but either his courage fails him, or prudence 
suggests to him that it will be unwise to go further. He 
must have time. He would have liked to continue the idle 
conversation, but hesitates to do so. She might hear some- 
thing in his tone that would startle her — compel her to 
understand — and after all, is he quite sure of himself yet ? 

Does he love her? AVhat had her sister meant by that 

half-laughing answer ? “ Not all ! ” Who was the excep- 
tion ? Or was there an exception ? And that other word, 
“ As a rule ! ” Did she mean anything — or nothing? Was 
it a mere fa^on de parler ? 

At this moment they come to a little rustic gate that 
leads from the lawn to the garden ; the lights from the 
house are falling across the flower beds, making bright 
streaks of yellow light across the darkness. 

As Carnegie bends over the gate, Nora catches Sophie’s 
hand. 

“If Sir Fell hears of Cyril 


102 


NOB A CBEINA. 


There is no time to say more. The gate is open, and 
Mr. Carnegie is waiting for them to pass through. Sophie 
presses her hand. Nora, is easily uplifted, so readily de- 
pressed, is once again silent — drawn back into herself. 

. They are now in the garden, and a crimson light from 
the windows of the library reaches almost to their feet. 
In this hot weather the shutters are seldom closed and 
often the windows are left wide open. 

“ Oh ! here we are,” says Sophie, speaking in a sup- 
pressed tone. “ If you will go up those steps, Mr. Car- 
negie, and in at that window, you will find Sir Fell. He 
will be delighted ” 

‘‘ And you ? ” 

“We ‘shall goto our own room,” says Sophie demurely. 
“ We are both sorry, aren’t we, Nora ? but I’m afraid you 
won’t see us again to-night. Sir Fell,” even more de- 
murely, “ does not like to have his evenings disturbed.” 

“ Disturbed ! ” Carnegie’s mind rather rages round Sir 
Fell. Old Goth! His evenings “ disturbed by these 
charming children. “ Perhaps, at that rate, Jhad better 
not go in,” says he. 

“ Oh no ! It is only we who disturb him,” says Nora, 
blandly. 

“Is that so?” says Carnegie gravely. He would have 
liked to say a great many things, but etiquette forbids 
him. “ I am fortunate then in having met you by chance, 
as I did.” 

“ The merest chance,” says Sophie. She holds out to 
him her hand. “ Good-night,” says she. 

“ Good-night.” 

“And Mr. Carnegie,” begins Sophie, a little shame- 
facedly. But Mr. Carnegie is not listening to her. He 
has Nora’s hand in his now, and is looking down into the 
small, pale, beautiful little face, with strange, new thoughts 
within his mind. 

“Mr. Carnegie,” says Sophie again, as loudly as she 
can, with the fear of being heard behind those library 
blinds always before her. “ I want to ask you some- 
thing ” 

“ Anything ! To half my kingdom,” says he. 

“Well — if you don’t mind. We — I That is,” des- 

perately, “ I wish you wouldn’t tell Sir Fell that we were 


NOB A CBEINA, 103 

out SO late. He is very particular about little things — 
and ” 

She is quite priding herself on getting on so well, when 
suddenly Nora spoils it all. 

“ Don’t tell him we met Cyril Ferris,” says she, looking 
entreatingly into his eyes. “ He hates Cyril.” 

Oh ! I see,” says Mr. Carnegie. His glance is search- 
ing, with an almost passionate anxiety, the fair little face 
looking up at him. 

‘‘ He hates every one,” says Sophie hurriedly. Every 
young man, any way. ‘‘You won’t believe it perhaps,” 
says poor Sophie, betraying her own little secret in her 
anxiety to hide her sister’s — “ but he even hates Denis! ” 

“ He must be hard to please,” says Mr. Carnegie, with 
sympathy. “ Of course I shall say nothing. I am glad, 
indeed, you told me — that you have so far let me consider 
myself a friend.” 

“ Oh ! thank you,” says Sophie gratefully. Indeed both 
girls bid him good-night again with much warmth, and it 
is with a happy remembrance of Nora’s friendly close 
little pressure of his hand — a remembrance that lasts him 
for many days — that he runs up the steps to Sir Fell’s 
library window. 

As for the girls, they pick up the skirts of their gowns, 
and, keeping carefully on the grass, make a run for the 
side door that will let them into the house. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


“ Ah I my heart is sore with sighing, 

Sighing for the May, 

Sighing for their sure returning. 

When the Summer beams are burning. 

Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying, 

All the Winter lay. 

Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing. 

Sighing for the May.” 

The Kinsellas, father and son, are unique. In their own 
way, at all events. Sophie’s account of them, acquired 
through constant conversations with Daddledy, amidst 
the delights of gardening, is accurate enough. That fatal 


104 


NORA CREINA. 


shop can still be pointed out in Saggart, though fifty 
years have gone by since the name of Kinsella was on its 
door. But what is time in the country ? — a mere nothing, 
made alone for slaves ! There is always a great-grand- 
father or two to stir up the youthful memories, and com- 
pel them to recollect this, that, and the other thing that 
would be so much better forgotten — the year when Darby 
Doolan swung on the gallows tree — the month when 
Nance Molloy murdered tlie baby that should never have 
been born — the day when my lord, in the big house above 
there, turned his own son out of doors, for daring to 
marry against his will said some, for forgery said others 

All such dates are writ large upon the memories 

of those oldest inhabitants. 

The Kinsellas, born of the people, might have known 
they could not escape the tongue of scandal, yet old Kin- 
sella having grown rich beyond all belief in Philadelphia, 
had decided upon defying public comment, and, fired, per- 
haps, besides with a desire bo see the old place before death 
made his own of him, had brought back to Saggart his 
large fortune — a handsome presence — a heart as simple as 
a child’s — a brogue that, in spite of all those years, you 
could hang your hat on — and his son. 

Peter Kinsella is a joy in himself. A joy at times too 
great — for his acquaintances. He is a tall man — as tall as 
his old father, but considerably slimmer, with a tremen- 
dous air — “ the grand air ” — he calls it — and a presence ! 

There must have been a pause in the amassing of the 
pile — or, perhaps, on the completion of the pile — (it was 
always thought of by Peter’s friends with a capital ‘ P ’) 
— when old Kinsella had thought it desirable to send his 
son abroad before bringing him back to Saggart. The for- 
eign idea, when shunted on to old Kinsella, seems foreign 
indeed, yet the old man had his own longings for grandeur, 
and for introductions into the ‘‘ upper ten ” (as he looulcl 
call it, to his son’s discomfiture), and doubtless thought a 
continental tour would add another lustre to Peter, who, 
in his opinion, however, was quite polished enough. 

He had despatched Peter from New York to Paris three 
months before he himself started for the South of Ireland. 
There the two re-met, and his own father, it may be safely 
said, scarcely knew Peter ! He had, indeed, made good 
use of his time! He had left New York, an Irishman — a 


NOB A CBEINA, 


105 


polished one according to his father ! — he arrived in Sag- 
gart a Frenchman ! 

It was so awfully clever of him, people said to old Kin- 
sella — (they never laughed when they said it to him) — and 
of course it icas awfully clever to he able to forget your 
own language in three months, and learn to speak another. 

The other was the queerest language ever yet heard ! It 
was the admiration of the lower classes in Saggart — the 
dismay of the higher. Lord Saggartmore, after deep 
research, declared that he spoke French — 

“Full, fair and fetisly, 

After the school of Stratford atte Bow.” 

Ilis wife said he was very rude. 

This phase lasted but a little while, however. Peter 
was equal to all emergencies, to all changes of fashion. 
Running up to town from Saggart, he put in a season there 
(his wealth giving him a certain status, and getting him 
into a couple of decent clubs), and returning to Ireland, 
about a month ago, he has brought back with him many 
innovations. 

If he had learned French in three months, it can hardly 
be considered remarkable that he should learn to be 
merely fashionable in one. Peter had spent but one month 
in London last year, yet it had done wonders for him ! 
He had learned how to shake hands for one thing. This 
need not be sneered at — it is a difficult acquirement in- 
deed, as all its votaries allow, and Peter as a fact had out- 
Ileroded his Herods. They could lift their elbows to a level 
with their ears. Peter, proud boast ! could raise his to a 
level with his head ! 

He had learned more than how to shake hands, liow- 
ever ! He had learned how to mutilate his English in the 
proper way. He could, indeed, drop his final g’s as suc- 
cessfully as though he had been in the heart of Society 
for the past four years ! People — nice people, I mean — 
quite wondered at his proficiency in this art. It had taken 
them quite a long time to be so vulgar — it had taken Peter 
no time at all ! And he did it in the most well-bred man- 
ner ! 

He had not^ however, learned to play the banjo. This was 
felt to be a sad drawback. But Nature, who had been so 
beneficent to Peter in many ways — who had, indeed, accord- 


106 


NOB A CBEINA, 


ing to his own and his father’s opinion, made him so much 
a sort of “ curled darling ” amongst his associates (it took, 
it must be confessed, a good deal of methylated spirit, and 
a strong curling tongs to produce the effect) — had forgot- 
ten to endow him with a soul for music. Nature at times, 
we all know, is singularly remiss ! 

Yet why be unkind to Nature in this instance? Why 
rebuke her? No doubt a sense of justice forbade her to 
give all things to Peter Kinsella ! 

* * * # * 

“ Oh ! what a lovely day ! ” cries Sophie, flinging open 
her bedroom window and gazing down into the scented 
garden beneath, from whence a thousand delicate per- 
fumes uprise to meet her. “ Peter is fortunate ! ” 

She is speaking to Nora, who has come from her own 
room into this — filled with a desire to lay bare her heart 
to Sophie. All night long she has lain awake dwelling on 
the hard- wrung permission from Cyril to tell Sophie of 
her engagement to him. She could have told her about 
It that past night (now four days old), but some strange 
feeling held her dumb — but now — now before she shall 
meet him and — and — Mrs. Yancourt again together — she 
feels as if she must tell Sophie how it is with her and 
him. 

Her heart is sinking within her. How — if when she 
tells Sophie of the fact that he has asked her to marry 
him, he will still show himself attentive to Mrs. Yan- 
court at Mr. Kinsella’s this afternoon? And yet, she 
must speak. Her face is pale, her courage dies within 
her, the very beauty of the day she shrinks from, as 
though it were a bright thing created to show the deadly 
sombreness of her own heart. 

“ Some people are always fortunate,” says she, in a 
depressed tone, d][)ropos of Sophie’s last remark. 

“That’s nonsense! ” says Sophie, briskly. “Nobody is 
ever anything always — not even ?/;ifortunate ! Where 
are your thoughts running now? To Cyril? ” 

“ Yes,” in a low tone. 

“Well! I’ve told you often enough,” says Sophie, 
vehemently, breaking into a confession that was on her 
sister’s lips, “ that that way madness lies ! For good- 
ness’ sake, Nolly, why do you waste your time over a 
man who is charming to you at one o’clock, delightful to 


NonA CBEmA. 107 

another at two, and, positively, all things to some one else 
at three ? ” 

“You think I am no more to him than another,” says 
Xora, turning to her with a face grown very pale. 

“ I think he is beneath notice,” returns Sophie 
promptly. 

“You mean ” She stops, choked with emotion. 

“Look here, Noll. You’ll hate me before you are done 
with him, but I will say what I think, if only for your 
salvation. What I mean is, that a man who has paid you 
so much attention for months, should certainly have 
asked you to marry him before this.” 

“You are right,” says Nora. 

“Well,” — throwing out her hands — “There! you ac- 
knowledge it ! ” 

“And he is right too. He has asked me to marry 
him ! ” 

“Oh!* Nora! Yesterday?” 

“No. No — no.” She looks at her sister, and casts 
herself suddenly into a big arm-chair, that seems to 
swallow up her tiny form — “ Months ago ! ” 

“ Months ago ! ” Sophie stares at her. There is aston- 
ishment first, and now a growing reproach within her 
kind hazel eyes — “ Months ! and you never told me ? ” 

“ Oh ! that was horrid of me. I know how horrid it 
was ! ” cries Nora, springing out of the chair and throw- 
ing her arms round Sophie. “ But — if you only knew ! 
If you had been me ” 

“ I should have told you ” 

“No. No, you would not. Not if the one you loved 
told you to be silent.” 

“ But v^hy be silent?” 

“He could not bear to think he was injuring me by 
proclaiming our engagement, when he knew he could not 
marry on his slender income. You know, Sophie, it is 
small — very small ” 

“ His income ? Yes. But when is it to be bigger ? ” 

“ I don’t know ! Some time. Oh, Sophie, don’t talk to 
me, don’t look at me like that. I have been so longing 

to tell you all these months You don’t know howl 

have suffered because I could not tell you ” 

“ He forbid you ? ” 

“Well — not that — only he was afraid, as I have said, 


108 


Non A C HEIN A. 


that it might destroy my chance of marrying a richer 
man. As if” — scornfully — “ I should ever marry any one 
but him! But that last night down by the bridge I told 
him I should tell you — you only. You understand that 
Sophie,” with a little frightened tightening of her arms 
round her sister. “You only 

“ Oh ! I understand,” says Sophie. “ Tell him he need 
not be afraid of me ? ” There is a touch of impatience — 
of contempt — in her voice that goes to Nora’s heart. 
Slowly her arms drop from round her sister. She moves 
back. Her eyes sink to the ground. 

“ You misjudge him still,” she says. There is a terrible 
disappointment in her whole air. Has she wrung from 
him a permission to make Sophie a confidante in their 
secret, only to find the confidante cold, scornful — dis- 
trustful. 

“ No ; now, Nolly, darling! you must not take it in that 
way,” cries Sophie, to whose soul that little disconsolate 
look has gone. “ I am more glad than I can say that he 
has spoken to you ; it is only that I cannot bear the 

thought of you — yow, who are Well! — you know what 

I think of you, Noll, that you are the dearest and loveli- 
est thing on earth. And, to think that you should be en- 
gaged secretly^ is hateful to me. I should think the man 
whom you loved ought to be glad to proclaim the joyful 
fact from the house-tops ! ” 

“ But it is for my sake,” says Nora. 

“ Yes — yes.’’ 

“ There is silence for a little time, and then : 

“ Why did you say he liked one this hour, and one the 
next ? ” asks she in a low voice. 

“ You must remember I did not know he had asked you 
to marry him then.” 

“ Still,” steadfastly — ^her large eyes bent on her sister’s 
face — “ you mean some one. Was it Mrs. Yancourt?” 

“ He certainly does seem very attentive to her — doesn’t 
he now, darling?” asks Sophie, miserably. “And I’m 
sure I don’t know how he can be ! Such an overdressed, 
stagey, painted little creature I never saw.” 

“ She is pretty,” says Nora ; her tone is, however, a 
question. She looks at Sophie wdth expectant hope in her 
eyes. 

“ Not she,” says Sophie, who is really one of the most 


NOilA CEMNA. 


109 


comfortable girls in the world. “Little doll! But a 
dangerous doll, mind you, Nora. You must keep your 
eye on her.” 

“ But why?” asks Nora, throwing up her head — there 
is battle in the lovely face. Does she still distrust him ? 

“ Well. For many reasons. For one, because she 
always keeps her eye on you.” 

“ You think! ” asks Nora brightening. 

“ That she is jealous of you ? It would be a blind bat 
indeed that couldn’t see that. I tell you what, Noll, she’ll 
do you a bad turn wlien she can. I do hate that little 
woman, with her airs, and her graces and her eyes ! 
What eyes she makes ! And at every man. She was 
making herself delightful to Denis the other day. Ha ! 
ha! You stould have seen her face when he got up and 
came over to me.” 

A deeper shadow falls into poor Nora’s, eyes. If she 
had been making herself charming to Cyril, would he 
have got up and come to her ! 

“ I detest her,” says Sophie, who has not known about 
the little stab she had so unconsciously given — that in- 
deed she would have died rather than give. “ Her affec- 
tations are sickening. She to pretend to be in delicate 
health ! She who can walk miles when it suits her, and 
has the appetite of a schoolboy! Yet the way she lies 
about on sofas and couches, or anything else that comes 
handy, makes me wild. Eusebius says she ought to be 
given a coffin on her next birthday. She is so fond of 
lounging ! ” 

Nora laughs a little at this, but somewhat joylessly. 
She walks to the window and back again, and then, as 
though forcing herself to say something that is hateful to 
her : 

“ She is very rich, Sophie ! ” 

“ And very vulgar,” returns Sophie promptly. “ She 
really knows nothing! I could hardly keep from bad 
words, the other day, when she was telling a lot of people 
about her ‘ place in Surrey,’ and about her ‘ lady’s maid.’ 
Lady’s maid! Just consider! And she calls Mr. Car- 
negie, Carne^gie. Oh! I assure you, she is a perfect 
horror ! ” 

“ It doesn’t matter hoiv horrible one is, if one is rich,” 
says Nora, sighing, “ I wish I were ! ” 


no 


mnA cnEmA. 


And then you would marry Cyril?” 

“ Yes. But it is so far off before I can even get that 
paltry five thousand pounds. That would be a help to us 
he says, small though it is. He couldn’t bear to see me 
in poverty — and really on the whole, Sophie,” telling this 
little lie most meekly, “ I should not like to be very poor 
either.” 

“ What are we now ? ” asks Sophie. 

“ Yes. That is it — ” feverishly. “We are so unhappy 
now, that I should fear to take a step that w^ould make us 
unhappy forever. No. We shall wait. But what a 
power money is, Sophie,” beginning to walk up and down 
the room. “It makes Mrs. Vancourta power and Miss 
Baxter a ” 

“ Beauty! ” supplements Sophie. “ I say, Nora, we had 
better be respectful to her. She is going to be our step- 
mother beyond a doubt. The only reason for our being 
allowed to go to the Kinsellas’ to-day, is that Sir Fell 
wishes to meet Miss Baxter. She is to be there, I know.” 

“Yes. And Lady Saggartmore and Lady Ballybrig, 
and everybody.” 

“ The Kinsellas are looking up,” says Sophie laughing. 
“ Perhaps after all you had better reconsider your refusal 
of Peter ! ” 

***** 

The drawing-rooms at the Abbey are quite full as the 
two Carew girls with Sir Fell enter them. A tall old man 
with a large, handsome face, and a figure upright and 
splendid advances to meet them. 

“ Here you are, girls. Here you are ! ” cries he, heartily, 
giving one hand to Nora and one to Sophie ; over their 
heads he nods at Sir Fell, who is frowning. “ So good of 
you, sir, to bring them. Come on, me dears! There’s 
lashins o’ fun inside ! ” 

He draws the two girls with him, still holding their 
hands, right up the long, long room, brilliant with gold 
and embroidery — to where some of their own friends are 
standing, Denis Butler for one, and the Stamers, and 
Eusebius Brush — Eusebius’ mother is providentially on 
the tennis ground outside, held there by an absorbing 
determination to see how Mrs. Vancourt is conducting 
herself with Cyril Ferris. 

Eusebius welcomes the girls with effusion. 


mnA CBmjsrA. ill 

An oasis in the wilderness,” says he, laying hands on 
Sophie. “ JVbw^ I can talk.” 

“ But of whom ? ” 

“ Why should it be supposed that it is a ‘ who ’?” 

“ Oh, Jknow you,” says Sophie, who, feeling Denis at 
her side, is happy. ‘‘ Come, give me the name of your 
latest victim.” 

“Well, Nora, if you must know,” says he, though it 
was not Nora he had in his mind. “ See how tired she 
looks — how pale ; I don’t believe she is listening to one 
word of Peter’s harangue.” 

“ I daresay she is fearing another proposal,” says Sophie 
gaily, but she casts an anxious glance at Nora for all 
that. 

Nora is standing conversing with Peter Kinsella. Peter 
is as tall as his father, as well made, but alas ! there the 
resemblance ends : Peter is as ugly as his father is hand- 
some. But if Peter’s face fails in beauty, Peter’s clothes 
do not. “ They make up for all deficiencies ! Peter in 
his attire doth show his wit ! ” He is indeed splendidly 
apparelled. He is bending over Nora with an open adora- 
tion, looking at her intently, whilst she--is looking at 
the doorway ! 

Always there is a little tension about her when in a 
room wiiere Perris is not present, but may be momen- 
tarily expected ; there is the swift glance towards the door 
— the start at the sudden entrance of anyone — the sudden 
sharp disappointment when it is not the one — and for ever 
the look in the beautiful face as if listening, expecting — 
hoping. All fatal signs ! 

At this moment old Kinsella bustles up to his son. He 
had been all the morning consumed with pride at the 
thought that to-day he is to receive Lord and Lady 
Saggartmore and their friends for the first time, but now 
a doubt of their coming has entered into his mind. 

“ They’re late, they’re late ! ” says he. 

“You must hurry no man’s cattle!” says Peter throw- 
ing out his arms and hands theatrically. “ They’re cornin’ 
— depend upon it, they’re cornin’. What do you say Miss 
Carew ? ” 

“ Y es. They will be here very soon, I think,” says Nora, 
smiling kindly at old Kinsella. “ Lady Saggartmore told 
me she would be here by half-past four,” 


112 


NOBA CBMNA, 


‘‘ But it’s past that now. It’s nearly five ! ” says old 
Kinsella. “ And there’s something tells me she won’t 
come at all.” 

“ She will, indeed,” says Nora with conviction. 

“ Well, you know her, me dear, an’ I don’t. That 
makes all the differ,” says Mr. Kinsella, with quite a 
noble candor in these pretentious times. 

“ Difference, Dad ! Ha — ha ! ” says Peter with a view 
.to hiding his father’s educational deficiencies — his latest 
lapsus linguce, ‘‘ I must say. Dad, you do sometimes make 
havoc of your adjectives.” 

Perhaps poor Peter had been alluding to his father’s sub- 
stantives — no one, however, except Eusebius and Denis 
Butler take any notice of his speech — they I regret to say 
give way to mirth, of a subdued, but distinct kind. 

“Hark! what is that?” exclaims Peter, bending for- 
ward as if listening. The wheels of the desired chariot 
can now indeed be heard grinding upon the grave] out- 
side. “ ‘ ’Tis she — ’tis she herself’” quotes Peter, with 
a beaming smile all round, delighted with his little apt 
quotation. 

“ Yes. She’s arrivin’ ! ” says Eusebius — but nobody I 
am glad to record takes any notice of this pleasantry, 
least of all Peter ! Perhaps he had not understood it. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


“ My purse holds no red gold, no coin of silver white, 

No herds are mine to drive through the long twilight. 

But the pretty girl that would take me, all bare though I be, and 
lone, 

O, I’d take her with me kindly to the county Tyrone ! ” 

— Old Ballad. 

‘‘ Look here. Look here ! ” cries old Kinsella excitedly. 
“ Before her ladyship comes in, ye know I want to learn 
something. See this ! ” dragging out from one of his 
capacious pockets a large card — evidently an invitation 
card. “ What’s the meaning of this, eh ? Miss Carew, 
me dear, you will know.” 

“ Yes,” says Nora, puzzled. “ It is from Lady Sag 
gartmore. It is for her dance.” 


miu anMKA. 


113 


Well, I know that,” says old Kinsella, placing his 
spectacles carefully on his nose and beginning to re-read 
the card. “ It came only just now, and 1 hadn’t a second 
to ask Peter about it. Peter knows everything,” with a 
proud glance at and a belief in Peter, that goes to Nora’s 
gentle heart. “ And now Peter,” looking round, has 
gone out to receive her ladyship. First time under my 
roof, ye know — great honor, me dear Miss Carew, I 
don’t deny that — indeed on the contrary I acknowledge 
it. But it isn’t the invitation itself, me dear, that’s puz- 
zling me, it’s them letters in the corner ! What can they 
mean, at all at all ? I’ve thought it out a good bit — but 
I can’t imagine what they mean — see here now, Mr. 
Butler, these big capitals in the corner. R. S. V. P. 
What do they mean, eh? Polkas an’ jigs, maybe, put 
into the polite French language to tell us what to expect 
at the ball. Peter tells me the French is wonderful tasty 
in their ways. Come now, give me a hint, there’s a good 
boy — ’t would be dreadful if I couldn’t answer her back 
like ! ” 

‘‘ Why ! don’t you know ? ” says Eusebius mildly. 
“ ‘ Rose Saggartmore, Vice-President.’ She’s President 
of the Primrose League, you know. Quite simple,” says 
Eusebius, spreading his huge hands abroad. 

‘‘ Faith, it’s simple, as ye say ! ” says Mr. Kinsella. 
“ Thank ye sir, I’m obliged to ye. It would never have 
done to meet her ladyship without knowing the meaning 
of her own card. An’ ’pon me conscience, here she 
is ” 

He moves forward to meet Lady Saggartmore, who, 
with a friend of hers. Lady Ballybrig, has now entered 
the room. The Kinsellas are an everlasting joke to Lady 
Saggartmore, but mixed with her amusement is a strong 
sense of the worth of this handsome old man, who now 
stands receiving her with a warmth, a delight, a courtesy, 
that should go to any heart, even less good-natured than 
hers. 

“ Saggartmore is so sorry he couldn’t come,” says she, 
pressing old Kinsella’s hand. “But he had to go to Cork 
on business ; something connected with his tenants. 
Nothing but business would have kept him away to-day, 
Mr. Kinsella.” 

“ Since he sent me ma’am, I forgive him,” says old 

8 


114 


NOUA OUEINA, 


Kinsella with a delightful smile. ‘‘Though his loss is 
great.” 

“ And this is Lady Ballybrig,” says Lady Saggartmore^ 
who has put on her most courteous air for this old man, 
and is evidently bent on treating him to her very sweetest 
ways. “ As she was staying with me, I ventured to bring 
her with me. You know her I think ? ” 

“ Mr. Kinsella and 1 are old friends,” says Lady Bally- 
brig, smiling at Kinsella, “ he has rented a good deal of 
land on the Ballybrig property.” 

“ And true friends I hope, my lady ? ” says he, bowing 
over her hand. If Peter had been present he would 
never have forgiven that “ my lady,” but the words from 
old Kinsella’s lips sound grand in a way, and do not for 
a second detract from his dignity. 

“Now, Mr. Kinsella, I want to go out and see your 
lovely place,” says Lady Ballybrig, who is a tall young 
woman, with sparkling brown eyes, and a lively manner. 
“ I hear it is a little Paradise — that we have nothing to 
be compared with it. And,” glancing out of the window. 
“ There is tennis going on too. I adore tennis ; my shoes 
are in the hall.” 

“ But tea — you will have tea first,” says Peter bustling 
up. “ So refreshin’ after a drive.” 

“ Oh ! yes. I shouldWke some tea,” says Lady Saggart- 
more courteously, laying her hand on old Kinsella’s 
arm. 

“ And after tea, you shall put on my shoes,” says Lady 
Ballybrig, slipping her arm into Peter’s. It has occurred 
to her lively ladyship that much fun may be got out of 
Peter. 

“ Now’s our time,” says Denis Butler to Sojfiiie. “ Let 
us make a run for it.” 

And indeed it is a splendid opportunity. Lady Bally- 
brig has carried off Sir Fell in her train, and Lady Sag- 
gartmore has impounded Nora, who is a great favorite 
with her. Not that Nora would have interfered with 
them, but that Sophie, seeing Nora’s look of dejection, 
would not have cared to leave her alone. Now, the world 
lies open to them. 

“ Quick. Quick, before Sir Fell misses me ! ” whispers 
Sophie, and together the tAvo conspirators, in high good 
humor, slip through the big French wmdow out on to the 


NOEA CBEINA. 115 

lawn. It takes them only another second to get round 
the corner, and lost, in the dense shrubberies. 

‘‘ What a time you have been ! ” says Denis, when at 
last they have paused, as much to regain breath as to tell 
each other all their thoughts. ‘‘I’ve been here since 
cock-crow, well — since four in the afternoon at all events, 
and now it is just five.” 

“ I know ! ” says she breathlessly. “ It was all Sir 
Fell’s fault — he wouldn!t hurry. He did it on purpose, I 
know ! He kept fiddle-faddling about all sorts of non- 
sensical things whilst Nora and I were grinding on the 
hall-door step. Even the fact that the beloved scarecrows 
were giving way beneath the old barouche did not move 
him.” 

“ I could believe anything of him ! ” says Denis com- 
fortably. “ Well,” with open and undisguised joy, “here 
you are now, any way.” 

“ Yes. Here I am,” says she. She laughs too, and 
gives him back his kiss, with an honest earnestness that 
makes his heart grow glad within him. 

“ Denis,” says she, when the first amenities are at an 
end. “ Did you hear that Sir Fell is going to marry Miss 
Baxter?” 

“Hear it? Am I alive?” demands he. “Of course 
I’ve heard it. And after all, Sophie, I don’t want you to 
be disquieted over it. She looks to me to be straight 
enough.” 

“ She is like Mrs. Moriarty, the butcher’s wife,” says 
Sophie, whose criticisms have, at all events, the advan- 
tage of being clear. 

“ Oh, I know all that. She’s awful in lots of ways. 
But she’s good-natured, and I’ve noticed that she laughs 
a good deal. Light-hearted people are generally good,” 
says Mr. Butler, airing his small amount of learning in 
the great lesson of human nature without a pang of self- 
remorse, “ they have seldom anything evil to think about, 
you know, so they can afford to be gay.” 

“ She looks to me,” says Sophie, “ as if — well as if she 
had a strong mind ! ” 

“ And so much the better,” says Butler, determined to 
give her courage in spite of herself. “ I’ve no doubt in 
the world that she will be ‘ one in the eye ’ for Sir Fell — • 
but all that will be to your good, eh ? ” 


116 


NOHA CllEINA. 


“Will it?” dismally. “It may be two in the eye for 
us ! ” 

“ Nonsense, Sophie. It isn’t like you to take such a 
pessimistic view of things. I haven’t a doubt in the 
world that she will be go^ to you and Nora. Who could 
help it ? And really she isn’t half bad. By-the-bye, is 
there anything new about Nora?” 

“ No ! nothing ! Poor darling ! you saw just now that 
she let Lady Saggartmore carry her off to the tea-room, 
because Sir Fell’s eye was on her. Sir Fell is encourag- 
ing Mr. Carnegie ! ” 

“Yes. Well?” 

« Well— that’s all.” 

“ But v)hy is he encouraging him ? I know you want 
me to ask that.” 

“Yes, I do. Do you know why he is trying to make 
Nora marry him? — because he knows she 

“More than that, even,” says Butler in high disdain. 
“ I believe he thinks or has found out in some way that 
Carnegi^e would be glad to marry her without any fortune, 
and so he throws in his weight for Carnegie ! ” 

“Well — that’s the shabbiest thing I ever heard of,” 
says Sophie slowly, as if shocked into a certain calm. “ It 
is true, perhaps ? ” 

“ It is certainly true.” 

“Yes, I fear so. All day long he has been hammering 
at her about Cyril. And she, poor darling, has been so 
wretched.” 

Butler makes some inarticulate remark. It is indeed 
with difficulty that he now restrains himself. Suddenly 
she says : 

“ I don’t think she cares for Mr. Carnegie.” 

Butler is silent for a moment or two, and then : 

“No,” says he. “But — lam sure it would be a good 
thing if she did.” 

“ Do you ? Yes, I think so too. And yet, I don’t know. 
I have strong, strong reasons, Denis, for thinking Cyril is 
in love with Nora.” She is thinking of Nora’s confession 
— of the fact that Cyril had asked her to marry him. She 
would have given almost anything to tell Denis of this 
newly-discovered knowledge of hers, but loyalty to Nora 
forbids her. 

“I am sure he is,” says Denis contemptuously. “A^ 
lauch in love 9/S he Qver could be, but 


NORA CREINA. 


iir 


‘‘ Ob, Denis ! ” Sophie’s face pales a little. She looks at 
him. ‘‘ ‘ As much as he ever could be,’ what do you mean by 
that ? Do you think,” in a low, most miserable tone, “ that 
he is — in love too with that horrid Mrs. Vancourt ?” 

“ I don’t think he is in love Avith any one, really,” says 
Denis, hardening his heart. ‘‘ I think he doesn’t know 
the meaning of the word love. I love you, Sophie — and 
you love me — don’t you ? ” She gives him a little hug 
as an illustration of the truth of her answer — ‘‘ And you 
know neither you nor I would ever care to — well — 
ever philander with another. But Ferris — he likes Nora 

better than any one else, I dare say, but — but After all, 

how can I tell how it is with him?” says Butler, breaking 
off short. “ It is difficult for some fellows to understand 
other fellows, and — one shouldn’t judge any one harshly 
— and ” 

“ I don’t want to judge any one,” says Sophie, with a 
sigh. “Answer me only this thing, Denis could one,” 
solemnly, “ who loved o/ze, make love to another one ?” 

This is too much for Butler. 

“ You should ask me an easy one,” says he, with deep 
reproach. “ I only say that I know one one, gazing 
intently at her, “ who knows one one, who couldn’t possibly 
ever again look at another one ! ” 

“ Of course, if you are going to make fun of it ! ” says 
Sophie — distinct offence in her whole tone and air., 

“ Fun of it ! My dear girl, what do you take me for? 
A Goth ? I thought it was a riddle, and I answered it to 
the best of my ability — a small best, at best ” 

The younger Miss Carew replies with dignity: “I 
think I should like to return to the others,” says she. 

“ No, you wouldn’t,” says Mr. Butler, catching her frock, 
and pulling her back to her seat beside him. “ Oh ! you 
untruthful girl ! Do you know where you will go to if 
you tell tarradiddles ? and if you are unkind to your own 
true love ? ” 

“ I’m sure I don’t know where he is.” 

“ Sophia ! ” 

“ Do^^t call me that,” says Sophie indignantly. “ It re- 
minds me of Sir Fell. You wouldn’t like me to call you, 
names.” 

“ I wouldn’t care what you caL’.ed me,” says Mr. Butler, 
liberally, “ so long as you called me early / And what’s 
in a name, after all ? ” 


118 


NORA CREINA. 


“ Call me Daphne, call me Chloris, 

Call me Lalage, or Doris, 

Only, ONLY, call me thine !” 

‘‘Really, I do think, Denis, I’m sorry for you,” says 
Sophie ; and then, considerably malgre^ she laughs a littie. 
“ I wouldn’t be as silly as you for a good deal,” says she, 
giving him a scathing little glance from under her long 
lashes. 

“ ‘ Pity is akin to love,’ ” quotes Mr. Butler forcibly. 
“ I like you to be sorry for me.” 

Upon this silence ensues. A silence spent by Mr. Butler 
in regarding with open admiration the pretty countenance 
beside him. 

“ Have you exhausted all your priceless fund of conver- 
sation ? ” demands Sophie presently, when she can stand 
his examination of her features no longer. She had her 
head turned scornfully away from him, but she saw him 
all the same. Girls are like that. 

“No,” says Butler, “I’ve a great deal to say to you still 
— so much that it will take me my lifetime to get through 
with it — but at that moment my thoughts overpowered 
my tongue. I was thinking of something I was rejading 
last night — some lines. They so exactly suit you, Sophie, 
that,” with an ardent but determined air, “ I must insist 
upon making them known to you.” 

“If it’s another quotation, I won’t listen to it,” says 
Sophie, making a valiant effort to break loose from his 
enclosing arm. 

“ My dear girl, you must. It’s from Spenser. You 
needn’t be afraid ; it’s strictly proper. Now hear it.” 

“I will not ” 

“ ‘ Fair is my Love,’ ” begins Mr. Butler rapturously, 
holding her tight all the time, and apparently oblivious 
of her struggles (which are slight), her indignation (which 
is intense), everything, in fact, save the exaltation that 
has seemingly made him its prey. 

“Fair is my Love, when her fair golden hairs, 

With the loose winds ye waving chance to mark ; 

Fair, when the rose in her red cheeks appears ’’ 

cries Sophie, now honestly offended.) 

“ Or in her eyes the fire of love does spark I ” 

•‘You’ll never seQ tliat ‘spark’ for yw,” says Sophie, 


NOBA CREINA, 


119 


with deep scorn ; breaking finally away from him, and 
standing a yard or two away, plucking at a rose bush. 
“What’s the matter with you to-day, Denis? Do you 
know that when you look at me like that you look horrid.” 

“ 1 know I do,” says Mr. Butler. “ But how can I help 

it. I’ve got a pain ” Here Sophie grows rigid. “ A 

pain in my heart^'* says Mr. Butler reproachfully. “ What 
were you thinking of? I’m in love with you, Sophie; and 
you are bad to me — and ” 

“ I do hope,” says Sophie, with depressing vigor, and 
in a clear tone that has no nonsense in it, “ that you are 
not going in for folly of that sort. I’m tired of it. Nora 
is so full of it, that I’ve decided against it for the rest of 
my life. Sentiment is all very well in its way, but — I 
have learned to distrust it. If,” solemnly, “ you love me, 
Denis, you can say so right out ; but don’t, for goodness’ 
sake, keep on quoting things at me. I hate quotations. 
Deeds, not words, for meP 

“ Say you so ! ” cries Mr. Butler, springing to his feet. 
“ Then deeds be it. Sophie, I shall kiss you ! ” 

“That you iiever shall,” says Sophie, standing un- 
daunted in his path, and putting out both her arms to bar 
his progress. “At least, not nowP Her defiance of him 
is so strong, that Mr. Butler goes down before it. 

“ Yet a deed there is bound to be,” says he. “ If I can’t 
have a kiss, I must have something else. Something to 
bear away with me after this day’s battle. If not a kiss 
— ^then a hairpin. Sophie, prepare to lose a hairpin.” 

“ Not I,” says Sophie ; she turns, gives him one swift, 
indescribable glance, and, in a second is gone. To follow 
her is but the work of another second, and presently, if 
any one of the guests at Mr. Kinsella’s tennis-party had 
been there to see, there was on view for them (without 
the inevitable shilling to pay for admittance) the edifying 
spectacle of a maiden, in modern attire, fiying before a 
youth clad in a most respectable gray suit. A tall shrub, 
standing in the middle of a bare grass plot, becomes at 
last the centre of their hunting ground. Round and round 
this astonished shrub (that really seems to shiver with 
horror at every circle made) they rush — until at last Mr. 
Butler, gaining an inch or so, is enabled to lay his hand 
upon the arm of his prey, and drag her into custody. 

To seizie her, to lift his ruthless hand to seek to with- 


120 


NORA CREINA. 


draw the desired memento of this auspicious occasion 
from her head, is the conqueror’s first thought. He might 
even have succeeded in his fell design, but for a low shriek 
that springs from her. 

‘‘ Oh ! Denis, darling, if you do that, my hair will come 
down ! ” 

This is tragedy, indeed ! Butler drops the hand about 
to commit the fatal deed, and gives his victim freedom. 

Sophie wheels round and looks at him ; they are both 
a little out of breath. 

“ Hah ! ” cries Sophie victoriously, “ I Jciiew I should win 
the battle ! ” Her voice is triumphant. Her eyes are 
sparkling. She throws back her head, and laughs. Her 
little white throat gleams in the sunshine. She is look- 
ing lovely ! 

‘‘ Traitress ! ” says Butler. He is laughing too. They 
look at each other, and then involuntarily they both lean 
forward — their arms close round each other. It is the 
honestest, the tenderest kiss in the world that they ex- 
change. It does not even occur to them to be shy or em- 
barrassed ; do they not love each other ? 

“ As I’ve got the kiss, I’m forgiven, I suppose ? ” 

‘‘ Oh ! you know I always forgive you,” says Sophie. 
“ Come, let us go back to the others. I know Sir Fell is 
looking for me everywhere.” 

“ Except here — ^thank heaven ! ” says Mr. Butler. 

Still holding her hand, they make for the courts below. 
No trace of the late small quarrel betrays itself in their 
faces. They are at one again ! 

All is bliss ! 


CHAPTEII XX. 

And who can marvel o’er thy grief, 

Or who can blame thy flowing tears 
That knows their source ? ” 

“ In the town of Kilkenny there runs a clear stream, 

^ * * * * * 

Her mind, like the river, is mild, clear and pure, 

But her heart is more hard than is marble I’m sure.” 

Meantime Nora has been swept in Lady Saggartmore’s 
train, from the tea-room to the tennis Qourt, Outside the 


NORA CREINA. 


121 


heat is almost oppressive, and in the little white tents 
dotted here and there, people for the most part are hid- 
ing themselves away. Eusebius Brush, seeing her, comes 
to her rescue and carries her with him to a cool spot be- 
neath some trees where a few others are lounging, some 
on the grass, some on garden chairs beneath huge snowy 
umbrellas. 

“ I hope you haven’t been so rash as to take tea,” says 
he. “ On such a day as this it means ruin to the com- 
plexion. Xo,” regarding her with a careful scrutiny, 

you have not.” 

‘‘ Yes, I have,” says Nora. 

W ell, at all events, thank Heaven, it has not gone to 
your nose ? ” says he. “Just look at Miss Baxter’s.” 

But Nora has no eyes to spare for even such a thrilling 
spectacle as Miss Baxter’s nose. Her gaze is fixed on 
Mrs. Vancourt, who, dainty-sweet as usual in look and 
attire, is listening with an air of evident bon camaraderie 
to Ferris, Avho is standing beside her. 

If Ferris sees Nora’s reproachful gaze, he at all events 
affects not to do so, but to Eusebius, who has followed 
Nora’s glance, it seems that Cyril grows suddenly fidgety 
— restless — and a little inattentive to the pretty little 
creature beside him. 

After awhile indeed he walks on a step or twp, Mrs. 
Vancourt with him, and presently, when they have 
stopped to speak to one or two people en route^ they turn 
the corner of a tent and are lost to view. An uncon- 
scious sigh — sharp, and full of pain — breaks from Nora. 
It goes to Eusebus’ light but kindly heart. 

“I say Nora! you have got yourself up to-day,” says 
he. “ You look lovely. Sir Fell must have been Hinging 
checks about.” 

“Has he?” says Nora smiling by a great effort. “If 
so, I didn’t pick them up.” 

“ No ! Then the mystery grows deeper. I hope, my 
good child, you haven’t been robbing any one.” 

“ Oh ! no. It is not I who am a robber,” says Nora, 
answering, however, more the bitterness of her own heart 
than Eusel3ius. 

“ ‘ These be assertions,’ ” says Eusebius, still very 
lightly though he is honestly sorry for her, the more so 
ip that he is quite awa/re of all the circumstapQes of the 


122 


NOBA CREINA. 


case, and holds Ferris as a cur. “ Is thy servant a robber? 
Come, Nora ! Pretty girls like you should be good-natured 
to their ugly neighbors. And — ” suddenly — ‘‘there is 
one neighbor — not that I think him ugly — who has 
been hoping for a recognition from you for some time.” 

“ Oh ! yes ; I know,” says Nora, impatiently, shrug- 
ging her shoulders slightly, and looking bored. She is 
indeed too sad at heart, poor child, to find anything but 
discomfort in the thought of the admiration of any one. 

She has been for the past few minutes aware that 
Carnegie, who is talking to Mrs. Brush, has been regard- 
ing her with eager attention. She knows that a look, a 
smile from her is all he is waiting for, to bring him to her 
side. A sudden hateful conviction that he is in love with 
her, strikes cold upon her heart. How, or why the 
knowledge is born within her, she does not know — but 
that it is there, written in large characters forever — sure 
— indelible — is beyond all doubt. A horror of Carnegie 
possesses her for the moment : with her own soul filled 
with love for another, it seems unbearable to her that a 
stranger — a mere outsider — should dare to love her. And 
his persistent gaze ! The way in which his eyes turn to 
her, as though there is nothing else to see in all this wide, 
smiling, beauteous day — all this angers her in a wild, 
unreaJiDning fashion, and makes her sad heart cold within 
her. 

Without looking at him, and whilst still pretending to 
keep up a desultory conversation with Eusebius (who 
indeed is doing all the work in a highly conscientious 
manner), she knows that Carnegie has detached himself 
from Mrs. Brush’s pungent criticisms of her neighbors, 
and is coming towards her. 

A faint feeling that she must turn and run — run any- 
where, so long as it will take her away from this coming 
fate, seizes upon her — only to be suppressed as hopeless 
the moment later. She is here. The world is looking 
on. Even to Eusebius she would be ashamed to confess 
her wild desire for flight. And Mr. Carnegie is coming. 
The knowledge of his feeling towards her, so lately arrived 
at, helps her to another knowledge. She must be gracious, 
if cold, to him. To conceal her annoyance at his presence 
is imperative. To betray it, would be in her present 
frame of mind almost to accuse him of loving her ! 


mBA CBEmA. 


m 


Yet, alasl poor Nora! She is so little of a diplomatist! 

Carnegie has now come up to her, and his kind, strong, 
trustable face — a face that if not handsome, is yet ad- 
mirable in all ways, is before her. There is unmistakable 
delight printed on it. 

‘‘ 1 thought you were never coming,” says he. 

“Never is a long day,” returns Nora sententiously. 
Eusebius has taken the opportunity of Carnegie’s coming, 
to slip away. 

“ I have found it so,” says Carnegie with his pleasant 
smile. 

“Naturally! garden parties as a rule are very dull,” 
says Nora, feeling very dull herself, and being determined 
to take no notice of his little smartness. 

“ That was hardly my reason for finding this one dull,” 
says he. 

“No?” Smiling a smile, that goes over his shoulder 
and is wintry enough to kill the shrubs beyond. “ That 
is because you were doing nothing. ‘ To be idle is to be, 
not only mischievous, but miserable.’ ” 

“You wrong me,” says he, “I have been doing a great 
deal. I have been wrestling with a terrible monster. His 
name is Despair. I have been sitting here, expecting you, 
for the past two hours.” 

“ I told you you were idle,” says she, still with that 
terribly sad, little, wintry smile. 

“ Ah ! You do not understand,” says he, throwing off 
his usual air and growing singularly earnest. “ It was 
hard work. The hardest a man can do. But I like hard 
work,” relaxing once again into his kindly manner, though 
retaining still a good deal of that strange quick fire. “ I 
never weary of work,” says he, smiling at her. “ I shall 
always fight to the last for anything I want to gain. That 
is the way to win, isn’t it ? ” 

“ I am not a soldier,” says Nora icily, looking away 
from him. 

“ And therefore cannot understand me. To return to 
the cause of battle.” 

“ Why return ? ” says she. 

“Because I want to tell you,” says he, a little doggedly 
perhaps, “ that I had given up all hope of your coming — 
that I began to think there ^^as little use in expecting you 
any longer.” 


124 


NOttA CTt^:tNA. 


“ That only shows how poor were your calculations,’’ 
says Nora calmly. ‘‘Never tell yourself that about me 
again. 1 am one of those people whom you may always 
expect ! I am sure to come — sure — if not to-day, certainly 
to-morrow.” 

“ Ah ! But I should like you always to come to-day,’^ 
says Carnegie lightly, though in truth his soul is lying 
heavy within him. Iler whole air, the little, half-averted 
glance, the chill in the silvery voice, all tell a tale — the 
same tale ! 

Yet never, in spite of all this discouragement, has 
Carnegie felt so thoroughly as now that she is the one 
woman the world contains whom he would care to have 
for his own. Never has it been so surely borne in upon 
him that he loves her with all his heart and soul. Never 
until now, had he quite understood how dear she was to 
him. There had been that night when he had walked up 
with her through the path flooded with moonlight, when 
the truth had been first laid bare to him, but that truth 
seems now a barren thing beside the rush of passion that 
has taken hold of him in this sweet hour — an hour as 
bitter as it is ensweetened. For now all his loss, all his 
gain, has come home to him. Before, he was restless 
when away from her, a little troubled in temper per- 
haps, a little impatient. He scarcely knew why — he 
knew only that he was calm when with her, and that 
when not with her, he thought of her, and longed for her 
always. And when he thought of her it was by her name. 
Not as Miss Carew, but as Nora — Nora Creina! It had 
not occurred to him in those old days (that now seem a 
thousand years ago, though in truth they are but round 
the corner as it were) that this name for her was but 
another name for Love ! 

“ It is very flattering ! ” says Nora, with her cold little 
smile. She lets her gdance wander away listlessly to a 
group in the distance. “ What a hideous gown that is, on 
Lady Ballybrig,” she says petulantly. “ It hurts one’s 
eyes.” Ail things indeed, have grown hideous to her, 
because of the misery at her heart. 

“ I thought it rather striking,” says Carnegie, in whose 
eyes the gown in question — a charming, if a rather 
pronounced one — has found favor. “If it hurts you, 
however, let me take you away from it. They are play* 


?s^onA CBEmA. ' 125 

ing rounders in the lower field. Shall we come and see 
them?” 

‘‘‘Very well,” says Nora indifferently. 


CHAPTER XXL 

“ Let us pray to Him who holds life’s issues in His hands, 

Him who formed the mighty globe, with all its thousand lands, 
Girdling them with seas and mountains, rivers deep, and strands, 
To cast a look of pity upon Kathleen-ny-Houlahan ! ” 

“ I iSTEVER yet saw such a fool as that girl,” says Mrs. 
Brush, almost before Nora is decently out of earshot. 
Mrs. Brush draws up her gaunt figure with a sniff, and 
glares round her — at nobody in particular. She generally 
(unless on extreme occasions) prefers to address the many, 
rather than the few. She likes an audience. “ There she 
is! deliberately upsetting the designs of Providence! 
Impious, I call it ! ” 

‘‘ But what designs ? ” asks Miss Baxter, with a sudden 
interest that at once rouses speculation in the breasts of 
those around. Is she going to marry Sir Fell ? If so, it 
is doubtless a great point with her to get the girls married 
as soon as possible, and out of the way. When a woman 
marries, she always hates the first family, and though the 
Carews don’t actually belong to Sir Fell, still it is pretty 
much the same thing, and, at all events, quite as uncom- 
fortable. And though Miranda Baxter is undoubtedly 
‘on,’ don’t you know, still there was Mrs. Montmorency 
O’Leary, who was quite fift}/ when she married, and there 
was quite a large family afterwards. 

“ Bless me, haven’t you seen how things have been going 
on?” demands Mrs. Brush sharply. “If not, you must 
be a mole indeed. Why I thought it would have been to 
your interests — from all I’m told — to look after those 
girls’ future destiny. Out of sight, out of mind, you 
know.” 

“ Well, I don’t,” says Miss Baxter, eyeing her adversary 
with a gaze that perhaps for the first time in her life re- 
duces Mrs. Brush to powder. “ It isn’t so easy to put 
people out of mind as you seem to think. But after all, 


isfoiiA cTtmnA, 


126 

I aaresay I haven’t understood you. You’ve been saying 
a good deal — but to me, at all events, it was of so vague 
an order, that I haven’t caught your drift. To come 
back to it. What are these designs you speak of. I 'may 
be a mole, but even moles have some intelligence of some 
kind, I suppose, and I should like to have mine satis- 
fied.” 

‘‘Well,” says Mrs. Brush, now entirely cowed and with 
her crest lowered, but with rage in her heart. “ It is 
open to all the world to see that Mr. Carnegie is in love 
with Nora, and that Nora is in love with that worthless 
creature, Cyril Ferris.” 

She has lowered her tone on saying this, though sorely 
against her will. But Eusebius, who is sun, moon and 
stars to her,^ has tapped her on the shoulder, and with a 
glance compelled her to reduce her confidences to one. 

The one, receives it calmly. 

“ Why is Mr. Ferris worthless ? ” asks Miss Baxter. 

“ Because he is playing a sure game with Mrs. Yan- 
court, and a fast and loose one with Nora.” It is Eusebius 
who says this. 

“ And Mr. Carnegie ? ” 

“ He could never play fast and loose with any woman,” 
says Eusebius shortly. He is doing all he can for Nora 
in view of this woman becoming in a sense her step- 
mother. If Eusebius had permitted himself to love any- 
one it would certainly have been Nora. 

“ And such a good catch,” says Mrs. Brush. “ His 
brother. Lord Connamore, is next door to dead and no 
children — it is perfect madness, I tell you, to see that girl 
refusing him day by day.” 

“ Hardly that,” says Eusebius. “ He hasn’t proposed 
yet.” 

“Because she won’t let him. She is, as I tell you,” says 
Mrs. Brush with acrimony, “ in love with Cyril, who is 
the basest deceiver Yknow. I’m perfectly certain he is 
going to marry in the long run that silly little fool Mrs. 
Yanccurt.” 

“ Is she silly ? ” asks Miss Baxter in her deep bass. 

“ She’s worse,” says Mrs. Brush, who loves to destroy a 
character. “ She’s pernicious ! Even within the sacred 
precincts of a church she can’t conduct herself with j)ro- 
priety. Last Sunday I could barely endure to sit in the 


MOnA CBEmA. 


m 


same edifice with her. Such gigglings, such whisperings 
— ^wdiisperings behind a fan^ moreover ! A fan in church ! ” 
says Mrs. Brush, as though a fan is an implement used in 
Hell. “ She thought, I daresay, that she was in a theatre.” 

‘‘ Good heavens ! Nothing so bad as that I hope,” says 
Eusebius, who, I regret to say, is enjoying himself. 

“ Yes — a fan,” says his mother, who, though she adores, 
never quite fathoms him. ‘‘And that is not all,” looking 
round her and, in spite of her son’s efforts, including the 
many people near her in her remarks. “ She was discov- 
ered whilst the sermon v/as going on, drawing a caricature 
of our respected Rector.” 

“ She must be regarded as lost indeed,” says Eusebius. 

“Oh, I don’t think that!” says a pretty woman — a 
Mrs. Moore, who is in a low chair on their left. “No woman 
can be completely lost who has the heart to dress as well 
as she can.” 

“ In my opinion she is beyond argument,” says Mrs. 
Brush severely, and with all the air of one who is putting 
her foot down upon all further discussion. “ She is a 
mere butterfly. She is positively characterless. A Lao- 
dicean — neither hot nor cold — one who has no religious 
convictions.” 

“ A Pagan ? ” asks Mrs. Moore, in an amused tone. 

“ Not so much that,” says Mrs. Brush, with a condem- 
natory glance at pretty Mrs. Moore, “as a type of the 
young woman of this latter half of the present century. 
The young woman who has no firm basis for her views, 
and who is all things to all men.” 

“ Oh, good gracious ! ” says Mrs. Moore, lifting her fan 
to her face. “ Don’t take away our characters like that. 
All things to all men. Oh, my ! ” She turns to the 
woman beside her, who is shading herself with a big 
white umbrella, the wife of the adjutant stationed in the 
next town, and both give way to silent laughter, that 
shakes them. 

“ I know what you m^ean,” says Miss Baxter, in her 
loud voice. Her back is turned to them, so she has not 
seen the laughter of the frivolous pair hidden under the 
white umbrella. . “A creature swayed by every wind. 
One who is sweet to you to-day, and who will believe the 
worst of you to-morrow.” 

“A negative!” suggests Eusebius. “Let us hope it 


128 


NORA CREINA, 


will soon be broken. But I don’t think Mrs. Vancourt is 
like that. She is a positive.” 

“In one sense,” says Mrs. Brush sternly. “In my 
opinion she is a positive disgrace ! A disgrace to Society.” 

“Oh, come ! ” says Eusebius. “ That’s going far, isn’t 
it ? ” Eusebius is lying full length — a tremendous length 
— upon the hot grass with his hands clasped behind his 
head. Had he heard suddenly that Mrs. Vancourt had 
been hanged, drawn and quartered, I think he would have 
rejoiced in Nora’s interests, but to hear her maligned 
like this in cold blood, stirs him. After all, poor thing, 
she is only a woman, and women are such fools that one 
should do the best for them ! This is the creed of Euse- 
bius. 

“ I could hardly go far enough,” says Mrs. Brifsh, her 
voice rising. “ Once for all, Eusebius, don’t talk of what 
you know nothing about. You know you detest Mrs. 
Vancourt, and a thousand times you have yourself told 
me, that if you detest a person, it is only folly to discuss 
her. You remember?” 

“ Yes, I remember that dark saying,” says Eusebius, 
giving up the contest, and going back to his lounge and 
his cigar with some ease of conscience. 

“ I know all your jargon as well as my own,” continues 
his mother, with a somewhat resentful glance at him. 
She would have liked to continue the argument and bring 
him over to her side. “ Where I say bad, you say fast. 
I have even heard the word rapid. It used to be applied 
to a river, but 7iow — well, in my opinion, Mrs. Vancourt 
is as fast as she can be.” 

Here Mrs. Moore emerges from under the umbrella. 

“ But her frocks, Mrs. Brush,” says this intrepid young 
woman. “ Her frocks ! One must consider them, (yould 
a woman who evolved such frocks as hers out of her 
inner consciousness be dubbed hopelessly lost ? — be 
classed amongst the — (How do you call it?) — the un- 
elected ? Surely something ought to be allowed to her.” 

“ You can allow her whatever you like,” says Mrs. 
Brush grimly. “ A thousand a year if you wish. I’ve 
no doubt she won’t object to it, especially as birds of a 
feather are generally supposed to flock together, and no 
doubt you will have thoughts in common. And as to 
classes. The fast woman has many classes. There are 


NOB A CBBmA. 


129 


the clever ones, and the ones that pose as saints, and,” 
with an awful glance that casts frivolous little Mrs. 
Moore into instant Purgatory, ‘‘ the downright fool ! ” 

Mrs. Moore flushes, and half rises. 

“ Oh, there is yet another sort of fool — an old fool,” 
begins she — but before she can finish this promising sen- 
tence she is dragged back by her friend into the deep 
recesses of the white umbrella. 

“ It’s getting warmer,” says Eusebius with a contem- 
plative gaze around him ; indeed the heavens are aglow, 
and the earth is simmering. Something else is simmer- 
ing too ! 

‘‘ Mrs. Vancourt will be warmer before I am done with 
her,” says Mrs. Brush. “ And,” Avith an ireful glance at 
the white umbrella, that is wobbling curiously as if one 
person were trying to hold it up and another to knock it 
doAvn. “ And her companions in iniquity too. So, I 
warn them.” 

Here the umbrella is very nearly upheaved, but pres- 
ently is righted again. 

“ Mrs. Vancourt seems to me a rather charming per- 
son,” says Miss Baxter. ‘‘ And, as Mrs. Moore says, she 
alAvays looks smart. Now I ” 

She breaks off suddenly, and her always high color 
groAVS apoplectic. Indeed, they all shoAV sudden signs of 
consternation, except Mrs. Moore and her friend, who 
now Anally abandon the umbrella and prepare to enjoy 
themselves once more. 

“ Who are you discussing ? ” asks Cyril Ferris, avIio 
has just come up to them unobserved, giving a delightful 
smile to each in turn. 

‘‘Mrs. Vancourt,” says Eusebius, promptly, if lazily — 
he turns on his side and looks full at Ferris. “ Miss 
Baxter Avas saying delightful things about her. She 
was calling her smart.” 

“ Yes,” says Ferris, raising his brows in a little, inso- 
lent Avay he has, and smiling noAV at Miss Baxter directly. 
The smile is not pleasant ; he is indeed wishing he had 
not come up to this particular group, but some one had 
told him Nora was here, after he had got away from Mrs. 
Vancourt Avith some difficulty. “ But is that the Avord 
for her ? ” 

“ Best of all words,” says Eusebius. “ She is nothing 

9 


130 


I^OBA cnmi^A. 


if not smart. Mrs. Moore has just been giving us a dis- 
sertation on her frocks, my mother on her morals. We 
have arranged between us that she is smart all round.” 

What a detestable word,” says Ferris with irritation 
ill-suppressed. “ Cruelly vulgar. ” 

“ It’s my word,” says Miss Baxter slowly, fixing him 
with her stern eyes, ‘‘ and I stick to it. Vulgar or not, 
it describes Mrs. Vancourt! ” 

“Poor Mrs. Vancourt,” says Mrs. Moore, with her light 
little laugh. “ Dolly, pick up the umbrella, we shall 
want it again presently.” 

“ A capital word,” says Eusebius, who detests Ferris. 
“♦Mrs. Vancourt is smart enough in all conscience.” 

“ Am I to understand that you think Mrs. \ ancourt 
vulgar?” asks Ferris, taking no notice of either Mrs. 
Moore or Brush, and turning his gaze slowly on Miss 
Baxter. “ How strange ! Do you know,” with studied 
impertinence, “ that people in her own set think her 
charming ? ” 

“ Do they ? ” says Eusebius. His face is quite calm 
as he regards Ferris, yet he is laughing in his heart at 
the sure knowledge that Ferris has made one more life- 
long enemy in Miranda Baxter. An enemy very close to 
Nora. “ But why charming ? Charming,” throwing out 
his hand, “ touches so much. Talent — genius — learning, 
even common education ! I hear,” deliberately, “ that 
Mrs. Vancourt’s education is not her strong point. I’m 
told she can write her name — but very badly. Deplor- 
ably, in fact.” 

“ We have all been told so many things about our ac- 
quaintances,” says Ferris with an uneasy smile, meant to 
be mirthful, but which is very much the reverse. 

“ Say if I hurt you,” says Eusebius lazily, taking the 
glass out of his eye and planting it in again more securely, 
to catch, as it were, his companion’s real meaning. 

“ Hurt me ! my dear fellow ! ” 

“Ah! quite so!” says Eusebius. “Well! as the coast 
is clear, I may as well go on.” He pauses. To hurt Fer- 
ris is to hurt Mrs. Vancourt too, but Nora — has she not 
been hurt between these two? A sort of savage feeling 
catches him, and with a little low laugh he falls back 
upon the hot grass, in an easy, lounging, happy position. 
“ The story goes,” says he out loud and in a clear tone, 


NOBA CREINA, 


131 


“that when she was engaged to her late husband, she 
never answered his ardent notes in her own hand. She 
simply telegraphed. The telegraph department, they say, 
lost considerably on her marriage. Of late she has taken 
to type-writing. Does she,” lazily, “ type- write much to 
you ? ” 

“ You seem to be so thoroughly au fait with all her do- 
ings,” says Ferris, who is white with rage, “ that I shall 
leave you to answer that for yourself. You say she is 
not educated — however, with regard to that ” 

“ Tut ! ” says the loud voice of his mother. “ Let the 
education alone. In my young days it used to be con- 
sidered good form, to spell cow with a ‘k.’ But what is 
the matter with that little fool of a Vancourt is, want of 
family ! She’s got no family. That goes without saying, 
as our French neighbors have it. She hasn’t a grand- 
father to her name. I know it ! ” says this inexorable old 
woman with a vicious force — who, however rude she is, 
has what the Germans call sixteen quarterings to her back. 
“ She’s hall-marked as clrossf says she, tilting her old nose. 

“ Mrs. Moore, won’t you come and have a game of ten- 
nis ? ” says Ferris, abruptly. 

“ ISTo, thanks ! Never play ! ” says Mrs. Moore. 

“ Except Nap or Loo ! ” supplements her friend, at 
which they both laugh. 

“ No, really now, I’m not a gambler,” says Mrs. Moore. 

Ferris hardly hears them, he goes past them all, as 
quickly as courtesy will permit, his head in the air, his 
heart on fire. Below there, is Nora, with Carnegie. .At 
the same moment Sir Fell, coming up to Miss Baxter, 
carries her off to a distant tent, where tea is to be had. 

Eusebius looks after her. 

“ I like her, I think,” says he. 

“Nonsense!” says his mother — who is never happy 
unless abusing somebody — “ what do you see in her ? ” 

“An ugly face — a strong will — a virtuous mind ! ” 

“You are a romancer,” snorts his mother. “ She is a 
designing, low-born woman, who wants to marry my 
brother for the sake of his title.” 

“ She has money. It is a fair exchange,” says Eusebius. 

“ It may be,” says Mrs. Brush. “ But she is a common 
person, and she is as yellow as a kite’s claw ! ” 

This seems to put a fitting end to the conversation. 


132 


JSfOBA CBEINA. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

“ I wish, I wish, I wish in vain, 

I wish I had my heart again. 

And vainly thiiik I’d not complain 
Is go de tu mo murnin slun,^"* 

Nora has just dropped languidly into a garden chair; 
Lady Saggartmore is occupying Carnegie’s attention. 
The moment is propitious for Ferris, as he comes up, an 
excited gleam in his dark blue eyes. 

“ Come, come at once. I must speak with you,” says 
he, his tone almost a command. She rises involuntarily, 
and passing Carnegie, looks up at him, and nods her head 
gently. 

“ Tea,” she murmurs, and passes on with Ferris. Car- 
negie loses his place a little in his conversation with Lady 
Saggartmore, but beyond that makes no sign of chagrin. 
To endeavor to recover his lost ground would be absurd. 
Lady Saggartmore is babbling on to him about her com- 
ing dance, and the difficulty of finding enough men in 
such a little out-of-the-way Irish town, and Xora is al- 
ready almost out of sight. It is with a pang he notices 
that she has not taken the way that would lead her to 
the* tent where tea is to be found. 

“ Perhaps she had seen her step-father go in there,” he 
says to himself, with a curious desire to believe anything 
rather than that she had wanted to go away with Ferris. 

Meantime the latter, with Xora, has reached a secluded 
spot — ^behind one of the tents, and securely guarded from 
observation at the back by a huge laurustinus now in full 
fiower. 

‘AYell,” says Xora slowly. “You have brought me 
here. To what purpose ? ” 

“Purpose!” He reddens warmly. “Is it not always 
the same purpose ? Do I not always want you ? ” 

“ Xot always,” says the girl very distinctly. 

“ I know what you are thmking of,” begins he hotly — 
but she interrupts him. 


NOBA CBEINA. 


133 


‘‘ I am not thinking of anything,” returns she haughtily. 

I was merely answering your question.” She is very 
pale. Her heart indeed is sick within her. But there is a 
little smile about her lips, that puzzles and enchants him. 
Always beautiful, with this new air of defiance — defiance 
that borders almost on contempt — Nora captivates afresh 
the worthless heart, on which all her young sweet hopes 
are set. She had seen him with Mrs. Yancourt — she had 
hated herself for the wild jealousy that shook her, as she 
watched them — she had told herself then, that she must 
study to be calm — careful — emotionless. 

“ To tune the sitar neither low nor high,’^ 

to show herself outwardly indifferent, however the storm 
might rage within. 

Now, however, her misery grows too much for her — her 
bitterness breaks out — the sitar is being tuned too high 
this time. Scorn of him trembles in her sad voice. 

‘‘You are misjudging me as usual,” says Ferris, “you 
think that I ” 

“ I tell you I am thinking of nothing,” cries she passion- 
ately. 

“ And I tell you, you ar^,” says he, quite as passionately 
— a fierce anger against her, born of his hatred of his own 
duplicity, is making him almost brutal. The very fairness 
of her, as she stands here before him, only adds to the vio- 
lence of his feelings. “ I tell you, you believe I am play- 
ing a double game — that I am deliberately making love 
to ” 

“ Stop ! ” says she in a low, but terrible tone. “ Not 
another word ! Not ” — vehemently — “ one / I forbid you 
to mention her name to me.” She breaks off suddenly, 
and, leaning her back against the trunk of an old tree, 
spreads abroad her little lovely hands with a gesture of 
despair. “ Has it come to this between us ? ” says she. 
“ Is this to be the end of it ? ” She is looking at him, with 
her white face uplifted and a sombre meaning m her great 
dark eyes. 

“ If so — it is you who have ended it,” says he sullenly. 

She turns abruptly as if to leave him, but he springs 
forward and catches her arm. 

“Don’t go, Nora. Not like this. Look here! Do you 
think you are the only one who has got something to com- 


134 


NOB A CBEINA. 


plain of? How have you spent yonr day? Tell me that. 
Do you think I have not seen? You accuse me of disloy- 
alty — but you — you have spent hours with him ” 

“Are you speaking of Mr. Carnegie?” says Nora, shak- 
ing off his grasp of her arm. “ Yes. I spent the greater 
part of this hateful afternoon with him. Why not ? who 
.else had I to speak to? The one I should have liked to be 
with did not like to be with me. And Mr. Carnegie is a 
pleasant companion enough ! ” 

“So you seem to find him, certainly.” 

“ What did you want ? ” asks she coldly. “ That I should 
sit in a corner and dream of you and your devotion, whilst 
your devotion was wandering elsewhere ? I shall not do 
that again. Mr. Carnegie can make himself interesting 
when he chooses.” 

“ Can he ? You have peculiar tastes. His conversation, 
I should have thought, would have been as dry as his 
wine ; and, to do him justice,” with an unpleasant laugh, 
“ his sherry is dry. And his remarks, how neat they are,” 
with an expression of disgust. “ I have listened to him 
when with women ” (this is a careful touch) “ and one 
always knows just where the little compliment is coming 
in.” 

“ Better than just knowing where the little sting is com- 
ing in. He is good-natured, at all events.” 

“ He is an angel of light, no doubt,” says Ferris viciously, 
with a light laugh. 

“ He may be anything at all ; but he has one virtue for 
which I can vouch. He never abuses 

There is the slightest pause ; then she turns again. 

“ Come,” says she, “ I want to find Sophie.” 

“Just one moment,” entreats he, as if choking. In- 
deed it has seemed to him as if she is really loosening 
(and of her own accord) the strings that are binding them 
each to each, and that goes hard with him. To give her 
up is one thing — that she should give him up is quite an- 
other. The insatiable vanity of the man, together with 
the curious passion for her (the strongest he ever has 
kno^vn, the strongest he ever will know), compels him to 
try and redeem his position with her. 

“ Well?” says she, stopping and looking back at him, 
her beautiful eyes cold and condemnatory. 

“We cannot talk here,” says he, with agitation. “ All 


NOB A CBEINA. 


135 


these people coming and going ties my tongue. Meet me 
to-night — to-night, darling ” ^ 

“ ^0,” says Nora. 

He goes up to her and, taking both her little, cold and 
irresponsive hands, presses them violently. 

‘‘ Have you forgotten ? ” says he. 

What is there to remember, except that,” echoing 
his v^ords. “ ‘ All these people coming and going ’ may 
see you holding my hands.” 

She laughs a little wildly as he drops her hands on her 
words, and looks quickly round him. 

You see,” says she, laughing still — that sad laugh — 
“ you see ! ” 

“ It is your desire to put me at a disadvantage,” ex- 
claims he savagely. Am I to understand that you 
refuse to meet me this evening? ” 

I refuse.” 

“ Nora ” 

Whatever else he may have been about to say is now 
frozen on his tongue. 

The sound of the swish, swish of a silken petticoat can 
be heard just close to them, and in another instant a 
little gracious Paris-clad figure comes rustling up to them 
with a beaming smile upon its face. 


CHAPTER XXIH. 

“ The work that should to-day be wrought 
Defer not till to-morrow ; 

The help that* should within be sought, 

Scorn from without to borrow.” 

“ Cyril ! At last I have found you,” cries Mrs. Yan- 
court, advancing towards Ferris and Nora with a little 
delighted look upon her face — the look of one who has 
been searching for a long time and now has found its ob- 
ject. There is not the slightest arriere pensee in the 
pretty smile. “ Oh! Miss Carew,” with a lovely look at 
Nora, “ if I had only thought of it, I might have known he 
was with you ; but, to tell the truth, the idea escaped me. 
Cyril, you must come ; you must come at once ! ” 


136 


NORA CREINA, 


“ Must I ? But where ? ” asks Ferris, trying to speak 
lightly, but looking, to say the least of it, remarkably un- 
comfortable. 

“ Why, to Lady Saggartmore.” She pauses, as if 
wondering, and then breaks into a pretty little laugh. 
“It seems as if you must know,” says she. “But of 
course you don’t. Lady Saggartmore wants you imme- 
diately ; she sent me for you. She,” with a charming 
little excitement, “ says she can’t do without you.” 

“Lady Saggartmore is very flattering,” says Nora, smil- 
ing too. She looks her rival fair in the eyes as she says 
this ; she compels herself, by bringing the strongest pres- 
sure to bear upon herself, to look honestly amused. 

“Well, I’m afraid it is more his help she wants, than 
Mr. Ferris himself,” says Mrs. Yancourt, addressing 
Nora. She puts in the “ Mr. Ferris ” carefully. He may 
be “ Cyril ” to her, he is Mr. Ferris to Nora and all the 
rest. It is a deliberate cruelty, small, but flerce. “ The 
fact is, Cyril,” says she, “ that she is afraid Tindal’s 
band will disappoint, and she has made her mind up to it 
for her dance. But there is something very special on in 
Dublin now. One of the Princes has come over, and — 
what /s she to do ? You must come to her. You know 
the conductor, don’t you ? you can work wonders there- 
fore. Miss Carew,” to Nora, “it is terribly rude of me, I 
know, but I’m afraid I must send Mr. Ferris away. If 
you will allow me,” graciously, “ I shall stay with you 
and convey you in safety back to your friends. You see,” 
with another little laugh, “how useful old married 
women can be to you young and fascinating girls.” 

It would be impossible to describe on paper the amount 
of insolence, a,nd cruelty, and hatred she throws into 
this laughing speech. 

“ You are too good,” says Nora coldly. “ Pray go with 
Mr. Ferris, and reassure Lady Saggartmore. I can find 
my way back to my friends without an escort.” 

Even as she says this, she lifts her eyes and sees 
Carnegie coming towards her. 

“ Ah! Here is an escort,” says she quickly. She moves 
towards him. “ Mr. Carnegie, may I trouble you ? ” cries 
she in a little, eager, strange tone. “ Will you take me to 
Sophie?” 

“ You couldn’t trouble me,” says Carnegie gravely. 


JSrOBA CREIJSTA, 137 

She moves away with him, without so much as a back- 
ward glance at Ferris. 

* * * # * 

‘‘Now look here!” says Mrs. Vancourt savagely, 
turning upon Ferris, as Nora and Mr. Carnegie disappear 
from view. “ You will put an end to this at- once. Do 
you hear ? ” 

“ An end to what ? ” 

“ Do you ask me to go into it? Well, I will, if you 
like. I should think it would have been you who would 
have shrunk from the explanation. There have been 
love passages between you and that little 
vehemently — “ you needn’t deny it.” 

Ferris remains silent. 

“ Deny it. Deny it,” cries Mrs. V ancourt, inconsistently, 
stamping her foot. “ How dare you not deny it ? ” 

“What is thereto deny?” says Ferris, who has grown 
very pale. “You insult me by such an accusation.” 

“ It would take a great deal to insult you, where your 
interests lie,” says she ; the coarse fibres of her nature 
coming to the front, as coarse fibres always do in cases of 
excitement. She is looking at him with fury in her gaze ; 
a fury that sits almost grotesquely on her small, delicate 
face, and fragile form. She looks at him as though she 
could willingly kill him, were he to ultimately defy her. 

“You have always had a high opinion of me,” says he 
bitterly. 

“ I have had a true opinion. But such as you are, I 
like you,” returns she, deliberately : “ and I shall hold 
you bound to me. There is much between you and me, 
Cyril — a strong chain ; break it if you dare ! ” 

“ Pouf ? ” says Cyril, lightly — hiding his disgust as well 
as he can, and attempting a carelessness he is far from 
feeling. 

“ You can ‘ Pouf’ it as much as ever you like,” returns 
she angrily. “ But I stick to what I say. Break the 
bond that binds us, if you dare.” 

“Can’t you see what folly you are talking?” says 
Cyril, who has now recovered himself somewhat ; “ and 
what injustice you do yourself. Sometimes I think, Eldon, 
for a lovely woman, you are the most modest of your 
charms that I know. lYhy should I wish to break with 
you ? ” 


138 


NORA CREINA. 


“ Ah ! that little Carew girl might possibly supply the 
missing link there,” says she — hut her tone is calmer 
now, and the furtive glance she casts at him is consider- 
ably milder. “ I tell you, however, Cyril, that all this 
must come to an end.” 

‘‘ Do you think I don’t long for the end?” says he. 
There is truth in this ; at this moment it seems to him 
that Death itself would be a good end to his troubles. 
Yet, he has to smile and hold her hand, and look deep into 
her eyes. “ Eldon, why don’t you trust me ? You know 
that long before this, even in spite of the fact of your 
husband’s late death ” 

^^Late! Why it is quite eleven months ago,” says Mr. 
Yancourt’s widow, who is now indeed floating through 
the Avorld in many coats of many colors. 

“ Well — I put it like that,” says he, easily and cleverly 
— his tone at all events is clever — it betrays no feeling, 
whatsoever, one way or the other. “But, what I desire 
is, to make my name in some way before marrying you.” 

“ And how do you propose to make it ? ” asks Mrs. 
Yancourt slowly, with a rather nasty glance at him — a 
glance satirical, at all events. 

“ There has been an opening suggested by Ogilvey and 
Grant,” says he, writhing beneath her gaze, yet not dar- 
ing to make a fight. “ They say ” 

“ Pshaw ! ” interrupts she, without the lightest attempt 
at softening down her rudeness. “ Don’t try to impose 
upon me with that sort of rubbish. I tell you what, Cyril ; 
I don’t care about your making money for me. I have 
money enough for both of us, thanks to old Mr. Yancourt ! 
And, though I agree with you, in thinking that I ought 
not to marry again until Yancourt is quite a year dead, 

still 1 shall require you, in the meantime, to pay 

attentions to no one but me ! ” 

“ Well ! ” says Ferris. His heart is sinking within him. 
It would have given him the deepest joy of his life at this 
moment to fling her off entirely — to refuse to have any- 
thing further to do with her — but that substantial ten 
thousand a year is dangling always before his eyes, and. 
Sybarite at heart as he is, he cannot bring himself to 
refuse it. 

“Well! You will have no more little flirtations with 
Miss Carew, for one thing,” says she sharply. “ Take 


cnmNA. 


189 


that to heart. If,” with a little hostile smile, “ you persist 
in that amusement, I warn you, I shall make it unpleasant 
for you.” 

‘‘ Do you ever think,” says he suddenly, maddened all 
at once, ‘Hhat I ccm break with you, that ?” 

“ No ! never,” interrupting him promptly, with a queer, 
little insolent laugh, ‘‘ I hold you — as I tell you — by your 
interests. 1 can give you, what you have always craved 
■ — money, position ” 

‘‘Are money and position all?” asks he — he is in a 
dangerous mood — a mood dangerous indeed to his own 
well-being. 

“ No,” says she — she falters, and looks at him. There is 
a pause — long enough to allow him to recover himself, and 
glide back into the old groove, that means all the pleasant 
things of life, if clouded with dishonor ! 

“ There is love too,” says he, in a low tone, carrying her 
hand to his lips. “And you, Eldon, you know that Hove 
you in spite of all.” 

“ Tn spite of all ” These words of his touch her. 

They make her pause. Does she believe him ? 

“ What is ‘ all ’ ? ” asks she. “ Miss Carew ? ” 

“ Oh ! What is Miss Carew to me ? ” says he, with a 
contemptuous shrug. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

“ Be ye one in might and mind — 

Quit the mire where cravens wallow — 

And your foes will flee like wind, 

From your fearless Fag an Bealach ! ” 

The luncheon bell rang five minutes ago. Nora and 
Sophie, who are decidedly late, scramble through the 
washing of their hands, and the brushing of their pretty 
heads, and almost tumble over each other in their desire 
to get down to the dining-room in time ; just outside the 
dining-room, tremors overtake them, mingled, I regret 
to say, with a wild desire for laughter, and, for a moment 
or two, they cling to each other, trying to stifle the fatal 
mirth that is bubbling up within them. 

In another moment they are inside the door, and are 


140 KOnA CBEmA. 

walking with preternatural! y solemn faces to their respec- 
tive seats. 

“ Late as usual ! ” says Sir Fell, in a tone calculated to 
destroy any appetite — but theirs. They fall into their 
chairs without making any reply, congratulating them- 
selves, indeed, upon his unusual taciturnity. As a rule 
he opens upon them, and reduces them to powder with a 
shower of invectives, on the smallest provocation; just 
now he says nothing beyond the first withering reminder. 
Perhaps he is too busy with the one grilled chop which 
he has appropriated, and which smells very nicely to the 
two young hungry girls, as, with the sharpened appetites 
of youth, they seat themselves before the two tiny slices 
of cold mutton, literally smothered in parsley (parsley is 
cheap and helps to enlarge a dish), that is all that remains 
to them. 

“ After all,” says Sir Fell presently, when the chop is 
finished, laying down his knife and fork delicately, and 
beginning to crumble his bread, ‘‘ cutlets are a mistake. 
There is something” — leaning back and stretching him- 
self luxuriously — ‘‘ iii the plain, unadulterated chop, in 
spite of all that may be said to the contrary.” 

“Certainly,” agrees Sophie looking up; she has finished 
her own little threadbare bit of mutton, and the spirit of 
mischief is rife within her, as Nora can see with growing 
fear. “ There would be even more in two chops.” 

“ More what ? ” sharply. 

“ More mutton,” says Sophie. 

Nora casts an imploring glance at her. 

“What do you mean by that?” demands Sir Fell, 
frowning. 

“What shoiildY mean? You said you thought there 
was something in a mutton chop. I agreed with you. A 
desire to keep up your conversational lead was all I 
meant.” 

“ Humph ! ” says Sir Fell. He glowers at her from 
under his heavy brows, but seems at a loss as to how to 
proceed. 

“ An attack on me I presume,” growls he at last. 

“ An attack on you ? Oh, Sir Fell ! ” cries Sophie in 
her airiest tone, dragging up her brows to a level with 
her hair, and shrugging up her shoulders en suite, “ On 
you f ” 


i^onA cBEmA. 


141 


‘‘Sophie!” whispers IN'ora, miserably. 

‘‘ What do you mean ? ” roars Sir Fell, who has caught 
the trembling whisper, and is now glad to be able to 
transfer his wrath from Sophie (of whom he stands a little 
in awe) to Nora, who is so terribly in awe of him. How 
dare you try to stop your sister ! If she is bent on being 
insolent to me let her be so. A time is coming,” turning 
once again on Sophie, when you will not have only me 
to contend with — when I shall place an authority over 
you, who will be always on the spot and who will see 
that your out-goings and in-comings are in order. I have 
chosen a person who will be no fool, I can tell you ; one 
who will see that you conduct yourselves with propriety, 
and as my daughters should.” 

“Your daughters?” questions Sophie. 

“ My step-daughters, at all events. I thank Heaven 
the relationship is no closer,” says Sir Fell. He glares 
from one girl to the other, and then leans back in his 
chair and pours himself out a glass of most excellent 
sherry. 

“ I understand you perfectly, Sophie,” says he, “ you 
wish me to understand that you consider me in the light 
of a gourmand. Now I am the last person in the world 
to whom that epithet could apply. I care nothing for 
luxuries ; I am positively austere in my tastes ; provi- 
dentially so, as the expenses that you girls entail upon me 
would effectually prevent my ever exceeding in any way. 
Culinary delights have no charms for me. The delicacies 
of the seasons as they come round fail to attract me. 
Well, I confess” — with an evident and noble determina- 
tion to be truthful at all costs — “ I like oysters just in the 
beginning of the season when they first come in — but if I 
didn’t chance to get them, I shouldn’t repine.” 

“ That is because you always do get them,” says Sophie, 
drily. 

“ I have a great mind to order you to leave the table,” 
says Sir Fell, almost foaming by this time. “ Be silent, 
madam, if you can do nothing but abuse the one who has 
been a father to you from your birth.” 

This is so grossly elaborated a description of the real 
relations between Sir Fell and the girls, that even Nora 
falls into secret depths of mirth, wherein she struggles 
valiantly for the following five minutes. 


142 


j^oha citEmA, 


By that time, the melancholy remains of last night’s 
pudding have been handed round, disposed of, and once 
again the coast lies clear. There are on the dish before 
Nora a few prunes, on the dish before Sir Fell one pear\ 
It seems an astonishing time for pears, but Sir Fell, who 
adores them, has had a little box of these preciously forced 
delights sent to him during the past week, and day after 
day one has come up to luncheon especially for his delec- 
tation. 

“ Some prunes, Sophie ? ” asks Nora. 

“You should ask Sir Fell first, Nora,” says Sophie, with 
an air of assumed anxiety, bending forward towards her 
sister, and frowning, as if to give her to understand that 
probably poor Sir Fell is dying for a few of these scanty 
sweetmeats lying before Nora. 

“Sir Fell?” begins Nora, clearing her throat, and ac- 
tually trembling with the awful knowledge that she is in 
convulsions of laughter. 

“ No, thank you,” says Sir Fell, pompously. “ Prunes, 
I hear, are most nourishing for young people, that is why 
I order so many for you two girls. As for me, a pear suf- 
fices me. Nothing so good as a pear, I think,” — this 
suavely. 

“ Have another ? ” says Sophie. 

“ Another what ? ” 

“ Another pair^"^ says Sophie, who is now in her best 
teasing mood. 

Sir Fell stares at her. 

“ I was saying,” says he, “ that there is nothing so good 
as 2^ pear r 

“ And I was saying so, too. I say there should always 
be a pair,” says Sophie. “ So nourishing, you know. Let 
me ” — scooping up two antiquated prunes into the spoon — 
“ give you a pair ! ” 

Her eyes are so mild, so innocent, so altogether beyond 
reproach, as she offers these ancient dainties to Sir Fell, 
that he hardly knows how to receive her offer. The last 
bit of his own priceless fruit is still upon his fork, and 
with a little most ungraceful gulp he swallows it too 
quickly, it sticks in an ungrateful throat, and for the next 
two minutes the great Sir Fell sits choking, and fuming, 
and writhing — unable to utter the anathemas that are 
trembling on the tip of his tongue. 


NOnA CitEWA. 


143 


These anathemas never come off. He has time to think, 
whilst struggling for his breath, and indignantly refusing 
the glass of water brought to him by the frightened Nora, 
to remember that a good deal depends upon these two de- 
tested girls for the success of the coming afternoon. Miss 
Baxter and her friends had signified their intention of 
coming over to Dunmore to-day to take afternoon tea with 
its owner, and the very making of that tea must be given 
into the hands of somebody. Besides, there are other 
things. The girls must appear — must be in good tempers 
(if possible) — the whole menage must be shown up in as 
rosy a light as circumstances will permit. 

Having got over his coughing and actually compelled 
himself to take the glass of water from Nora, Sir Fell 
motions her to return to her seat, and leaning back in his 
own, once more scowls around him. 

“ A word to you both before you leave,” says he. 

He has recovered all his haughtiest air. That late suffo- 
cating, humiliating choke has apparently been consigned 
to the deepest limbo. It is now, with quite a recovered 
manner, he throws out his right hand and brings the girls 
once more to attention. 

“ I shall expect you both to be in the drawing-room to- 
day at four o’clock sharp. I am expecting some friends 
of mine — the Lacys ” 

“Friends!” says Sophie. The Lacys up to this have 
been beyond the pale. 

“ Certainly, friends,” — sharply, yet without looking at 
her — “ the Lacys and Miss Baxter. You will see that tea 
is properly served, and ” 

“ There is no cake,” says Sophie cheerfully. 

“ I have seen to that, knowing how impossible it would 
be to trust to either of you to have anything necessary 
in the house. Your ideas of housekeeping have long been 
known to me.” He says all this with quite a lofty air of 
reproach, whilst knowing in his soul that the limited 
amount allowed for household expenses barely suffices for 
the commonest necessaries of life. “You will find some 
cakes in the store-room. See that they are sent in on the 
best plates. Take out the old Worcester, and the Queen 
Anne silver. I wish to have everything as delicately ar- 
ranged as possible. As for the bread and butter, I must 


144 


NOUA CnmNA. 


request that it will be properly cut and rolled^ not sent in 
in junks as it was last time.” 

“ I suppose if we see to all this we need not appear?” 
says Sophie, calmly. 

“ Not ajppear ! What do you mean ? ” exclaims Sir Fell, 
violently. “ I commahd you to appear. Do you wish to 
slight my guests? You would if you dared, I am sure; 
hut remember I desire you to be present.” 

“You desire! You command!” says Sophie, flinging 
up her head. “ What right have you to do either ? ” 

“ Right — what right ? ” stutters Sir Fell, convulsed with 
rage. 

“Yes — what right? It is only tyrants who behave as 
you do, and you ” 

“A tyrant! Do you dare to call me a tyrant?” He 
rises, he seems to tower over her. 

“ Sophie, darling murmurs Nora, trembling, entreating. 

Sophie laughs almost fiercely. 

“ I do indeed,” says she. “ I was going to say, that as 
a tyrant you are ” 

“ Eh ? ” questions he. 

“ Eh ? ” repeats she. 

“ Go on ! ” thunders he. “ Eh, what ? ” 

“Well, A 1 then! ” says she deliberately. 

This little play upon words drives Sir Fell to the very 
limit of his bad temper. 

“Leave the room, insolent girl,” roars he, throwing 
out a tragic hand in the direction of the door. “ Go, go ! 
Before I do you an injury ! You, you to dare to accost 
me like this — to — I am an A 1 Tyrant tligii, ami ? I’ll act 
up to your verdict. I’ll warrant you. I ” 

And then ensues a perfect storm of abuse, beneath 
which Nora goes down crushed ; it is Nora who suffers 
most, though it is upon Sophie’s rash head that it liter- 
ally hails. Wild is the whirlwind that rages round her, 
and is still raging, when Nora at last draws her out of the 
room, and along the corridor to the old schoolroom Avhere 
they can always be sure of being left in peace. 

Sophie, once out of the room, has gone on before, and 
Nora, seeing that her head is slightly bent, feels sad at 
heart at the thought that this gay, bright, courageous 
companion has at last given way beneath the terrible scene 
that has just taken place. 


ISfORA CRm^^A. 


145 


‘‘ Sophie,’’ says she, when she has closed and locked the 
old schoolroom door. “ Sophie, darling, don’t mind him.” 
She feels as if she cannot hear to look at her poor face, 
which she knows mnst look like ashes, and considerately 
as she says this, stares out of the window. She is brought 
speedily back to reason — and Sophie — by a most suspi- 
cious sound from the latter. Sophie, indeed, is bursting 
with laughter. 

‘‘We’re alive !” says she, iDlacing her arms akimbo and 
executing a 2^cts seal that would have made her fortune at 
the Gaiety. “ Not a bone broken ! Fancy that ! What’s 
the matter with you, Noll ? You look like a ghost. Such 
a frightened little face ! ” 

“ Oh ! Sophie, all the things he said.” 

“ There must have been a good many of them certainly,” 
says Sophie, “ considering the time it took him to shoot 
them all off. But I confess I didn’t hear much of them. 
When his first firework went off, and I felt he Avas thor- 
oughly wound up, I gave him a thousand and began to 
count (not quickly, you know, but calmly, to give him 
every chance), and to show you how thoroughly I under- 
stand him, I may tell you that 1 got to 980 before he began 
to run doAvn, and you saw fit to eject me.” Here she 
breaks into irrepressible laughter. “ I thought he was 
going to burst^^'^ says she. “ Didn’t you ? What a pity he 
dicMt. Did you look at his face when I said A 1 ? I 
thought I should have burst then. His shirt was so white, 
and his face so highly colored, that I could think of nothing 
but purple and fine linen.” 

“ But this afternoon ” 

“ He will be too taken up with his Miss Baxter to think 
of me ; and besides, Ave are to be represented, for her ben- 
efit, as the happy united family Avithin Avhose bosom is 
everlasting peace.” 

“ But there Avill be dinner after that, when they are 
gone. What will you do then ? ” 

“Eat it,” says Sophie. 

At this Nora too laughs. 

“ Oh ! I wish I had your courage,” says she. “ But 
I haven’t. What a terrible person he is. Was there 
ever so domineering a man ? ” 

“ He is like love,” says Sophie sweetly. 

“ Love ! Like love ! Sophie ! ” 

10 


146 


NOB A CBBINA, 


“Well, isn’t he? He ‘rules the court, the camp, the 
grove,’ or he would if he could at all events. But there is 
one thing he shan’t rule, and that’s me/^^ 

Here they both laugh again, but softly, as if afraid of 
being overheard. 

“And the Queen Anne silver, and the old Worcester! 
Those old cups and saucers that we are scarcely allowed 
to sneeze in the room with. Nora,” grasping her arm ; 
“ it is beyond all dispute now. He means to marry her. 
It is she alone who could create in him a desire to put his 
best foot foremost.” 

“ She ? Miss Baxter ? ” 

“ Miss Baxter beyond question. The, alas ! ‘ JVot im- 
possible She!^ She is coming here to-day to inspect the 
premises — to see if it is worth her while to barter (one 
feels inclined to say baxter), her gold for his title.” 

“She will take the title,” says Nora. “ I feel it.” 

“ How I should love to send in the kitchen cups and 
saucers,” says Sophie, “ and bread and butter as thick as 
your wrist. I suppose,” hesitating, “ that wouldn’t do? 
But what a chance, Nolly. A chance of escape from a 
step-mother. It is worth thinking about.” 

“ It isn’t,” says Nora drearily. “ If you sent her her 
tea mjam pots^ she’d be Lady Anketell in spite of them.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

“ Tell me, my friends, why are we met here ? ” 

It is all over. Miss Baxter has come, has gone, leaving 
consternation behind her. The best Worcester had been 
paraded, the ancient silver had shed a glow over the 
faded room, the cake had been a little less stale than 
might be expected of the local grocer, and the bread and 
butter had been unexceptionable. 

Miss Baxter had partaken of all with a beaming smile 
upon her broad face, and a determination to take all things, 
even the girl’s lukewarm attentions, in the very best 
spirit. She had praised the tea, and “tucked into the 
bread and butter,” (as Sophie rather vulgarly remarked 
afterwards) and had wisely eschewed the choky seedcake \ 


NORA CREINA, 


147 


and when, after a lengthened stroll round the dilapidated 
gardens with Sir Fell, she had returned to the house, it 
was to be presented to the girls as their future step-mother. 

“ Though of course I know I can’t be your step-mother,” 
said Miranda Baxter, or any other sort of mother to 
you, as Sir Fell is not your father ! ” 

‘‘Mother! What a misnomer! Their sister rather,” 
said Sir Fell, in his most delightful tone — the tone that 
makes the girls always long to fall upon him and smite 
him hip and thigh — radiant in the thought that he has now 
got a third fortune to squander. Poor Sir Fell ! If ever 
he was worthy of pity, it is now ! 

“ Well. I don’t care how they take me, so long as they 
will give me a welcome,” said Miss Baxter, heartily. She 
held out her hand to Sophie, but she looked at Nora. 
Sophie took the hand, but Nora avoided the look. 

“ I say, you girls, I hope you will try to like me,” said 
Miranda, in her loud, hard voice. “ I’m English. I ex- 
pect that will prevent you Irish from liking me, but ” 

“ Oh ! no said Nora, softly, if a little haughtily. 

“ All that sort of thing is exploded,” said Sophie. “ We 
are half English ourselves, though we seldom confess it 
We keep it as dark as we can. But I believe our great- 
grandfather was born in Warwick. Fearful thought! If 
you are coming to live with us, Miss Baxter, I hope you 
will like us ! That will be much more to the purpose — 
for us ! ” 

“ W ell — we shall see ! ” said Miranda Baxter. Then she 
had looked at Nora. “And you — what of you?” said 
she, in a loud, challenging sort of way. 

“ I hope you will be happy here,” said Nora, coldly, 
with a little delicate smile, that died almost as it was 
born. 

“ Do you ? ” said Miranda. “ Would . your hope be 
stronger, if it had to do with my being happier else- 
where ? ” She laughed loudly as she said that, and in a 
queer sort of way took Nora’s hand and pressed it. “ You 
don’t know me yet,” said she. 

Was that a threat? Sophie felt a little frightened. 
Sophie, who never was frightened for herself, felt now 
nervous about Nora. Why could not Nora have been a 
little bit civil. It cost so little to be civil, and if Miss 
Baxter was to come and live with them, civility before- 


148 


NORA CREINA. 


hand would surely count. ‘‘ You don’t know me yet ! ” 
There was a sinister sound about those words. They 
might indeed mean anything. 

S^he went away shortly after that, taking her friends, 
the Lacys, with her ; and the girls, after suffering a long 
lecture from Sir Fell on the impropriety of their be- 
havior, escaped into the garden, where now, in the dying 
twilight, they wandered up and down the old, sweet mossy 
walks, their arms twined around each other. 

“ What did you think of her ? ” asks Sophie, presently, 
when they have discussed the calamity of having a step- 
mother ad nauseam. 

“ I thought her a little more vulgar than usual,” says 
Nora. 

“ Well, I thought she quite shone beside Sir Fell,” says 
Sophie. “ lie was vulgar, if you like ! ’’ 

“ You mean ? ” 

“ The way he marched her about — showing her this, and 
that ; and calling everything old — so old ! That must 
have galled her whilst it attracted her. There is nothing 
so vulgar,” says Sophie, decisively, “as to deliberately 
hurt the feelings of somebody else, and he hurt hers all 
along the line to-day. However,” gaily, “she will pay 
him off for it, in the very near future ! I feel sure of that, 
and the thought sustains ipe ! ” 

“Yes, I noticed his hateful allusions to this old picture, 
and that old bit of brocade,” says Nora. 

“ It isn’t only people of low birth who are common and 
unclean,” says Sophie. “ Sir Fell belongs to the gutter, 
in my opinion.” 

“ If so, they are well met,” returns Nora, with a shrug. 

“ Probably. Still, the advantage is on her side. She is 
worth her Aveight in gold ; whereas he ” 

“ Her weight ! She is an heiress indeed a,t that rate ! '' 
says Nora. Whereupon they both give way to mirth, so 
keen, so happy, that it disperses to the four winds of 
heaven all their spleen. 

Merry rings their laughter through the scented garden 
— so merrily indeed that it reaches the ears of old Dad- 
dledy, who, digging amongst and earthing his late cab- 
bages, raises his head, and, seeing them, puts down his 
shovel and comes towards them. 

What are ye doin’ there ? ” asks he, blinking his old 


JSrORA CREIJSTA, 


149 


eyes, and evidently on the look-out for mischief. ‘‘ Pull- 
in’ the flowers off me apple-threes, no doubt, to decorate 
yer dinner table. No, fegs ! not whilst Tm here.” 

‘‘ Apple-blossoms ! Why there isn’t one worth looking 
at now,” says Sophie. “ Don’t be stupid, Daddledy. 
Do you think we don’t want the coming apples as well as 
you do? No — we are only walking about and talking.” 

“ Faiks, ye do look idle ! ” says Daddledy, making the 
noble concession with a grim smile. Smiles are so for- 
eign to Daddledy’s sour face, that when by chance he 
gives way to one, the consequences are awful. 

“ Oh! Daddledy, don’t!” says Nora. 

An^ what were ye talkin’ about ? ” asks Daddledy, 
leaning on his shovel and regarding them with much 
acrimony. 

“ About Miss Baxter,” says Sophie. “ You were right, 
Daddledy. Sir Fell is going to marry her.” 

“ That ould girl ! ” says Daddledy. He is silent awhile. 
He had certainly given his two young mistresses to under- 
stand that he thought Sir Fell woidd marry Miss Baxter, 
sooner or later ; hut now that his supposition is a fait 
accompli^ his surprise, it appears, is beyond bounds. 
“ Why, she’s nigh as ould as himself,” says he, ‘‘ an’ that’s 
sayin’ a lot. May the divil carry thim disthracted ould 
faymales.” 

‘‘ But, Daddledy,” says Sophie, in an explanatory sort 
of way — “ Miss Baxter has been asked by Sir Fell to marry 
him. It is quite right, quite reasonable. She ” 

“Ye needn’t go into it, me dear,” says Daddledy. “ I’m 
far from a fool, thank God. Marriage is honorable, I 
know, an’ age is valuable — ^but, an ould maid is abomin- 
dbleT 

“ Oh ! If Miss Baxter could hear you ! ” 

“ I wouldn’t care if she did, fegs. An ould maid she 
is, however it goes. But I don’t envy her anyway. Sir 
Fell’s no joke. Was there iver the like of him?” de- 
mands Daddledy, suddenly standing square on the walk, 
and whacking his shovel against a neighboring tree in a 
very access of passion. “ He come here this mornin,’ an’ 
says he — ‘ Daddledy,’ says he, ‘ Ye’ll airth all thim cab- 
bages before nightfall, or I’ll know the rayson why,’ says 
he.” 

“ All those cabbages ! ” says Nora, looking at the long, 


150 


NORA C REIN A, 


long row to which the old man is pointing. “ Why no 
one could do those in a day. Well, and what did you 
say Daddledy ? ” 

Only one word to the point, me dear — ^but fegs, it 
scatthered him. I said — ‘ May the divil airth you soon ! ’ 
An’ faith, ye wouldn’t have seen him goin’ ! Look here,” 
says Daddledy, wildly brandishing his shovel over his 
old shoulder, “ I’ve the worst opinion of him. I’m think- 

in’, thin. Miss ” Here Daddledy pauses, and regards 

the two girls with a small, but sparkling eye, and a 
sloAV wag of his frowzy head from side to side — I’m 
thinkin’ that if there was a warrant out agin the Divil, 
they’d have yer step-father up on suspicion ? ” 

‘‘ Oh ! Daddledy ! ” says Sophie, with mock horror, 
“ And has it come to this ? Don’t you think you had 
better warn Miss Baxter of her future lord’s iniquities ? 

Do, It may save us from a ^^Yhat will she be, Nora, 

a step-step-mother?” 

She’s ould enough to know her own mind,” says 
Daddledy grumpily, an’ common enough too. Fegs, I’ll 
tell ye what,” nodding at the girls with a withering air, 
“ It’s cornin’ down in the world ye are. What wid yer 
step-father marryin’ with a thradesman’s daughter, an’ 
yer takin’ tay wid ould Pether Kinsella ! ’Pon me con- 
science I’d as soon see ye take tay wid mesilf .” 

‘‘ Well — why don’t you ask us ? ” says Sophie, who de- 
lights in teasing him. “ You have only to say the word, 
and Miss Nora and I will be with you in the twinkling of 
an eye. When shall it be, Daddledy ? Name the day, the 
happy day ! And who will you ask to meet us ? Mr. 
Butler, forme; and who for Miss Nora? Mr. Carnegie?” 

“ Now there’s a raal gintleman for you,” says Daddledy 
with a shrewd glance at Nora, Avho laughs at him. ‘‘ He 
comes of a good lot. Not a bad dhrop in him. I remim- 
ber him well, when he was a bit of a gossoon wid a head 
like a yallow turnip.” 

“ How pretty ! ” says Nora. 

“ I saw him afther that, many a time, whin he was a 
grown lad — an’ fine he was to look at.” 

“ We saw him too,” says Sophie. 

“ Oh ! but ye were babbies thin. Though the Launy 
knows,” says Daddledy, piously addressing by this strange 
uamQ the Powers that be — “ ye haven’t a grain mor^ 


NOEA CEEINA, 


^ 15 ; 

sinse noAV than ye had thin. Yer mother was alive thin.” 

“ What kind was she, Daddledy ?” asks Sophie eagerly 
— to whom, as well as to Nora, their mother is only a bare 
memor\' — slight, unsatisfactory. 

Wisha ! A pore crature ? ” says Daddledy impartially, 
“ The masther did what he liked wid her. Who but a 
pore crature would marry him.” 

“ I don’t think Miss Baxter is a “ poor crature,’ ” says 
Sophie, in a rather huffed tone. 

“ ’Tis me prayer that she isn’t,” says Daddledy. ‘‘ If 
she’d up wid her fist to him, ’twould be new life to me 
ould bones. An’ maybe she will ; thim low-born faymales 
can do a power. Yer pore mother was a lady, any way, 
an’ didn’t know how to manage him. Look how she left 
yer fortunes itself. Not a penny can ye touch widout his 
consint.” 

“Until we are twenty-five,” says Nora. 

“ Is that what ye think? Well, maybe — maybe,” says 
the old man cautiously. “ But I understood that if ye mar- 
ried even thm., agin his wishes, the money would remain 
wid him.” 

“Oh, nonsense!” says Sophie. “You are dreaming. 
Never mind that,” — gaily — “ Tell us about Mr. Carnegie. 
It’s quite a comfort to get you on to Afm, Daddledy — he 
is the only person I ever knew you talk of without virulent 
abuse. Goon. You know,” mischievously, “that Miss 
Nora is longing to hear anything you can tell about him ; 
little anecdotes about his teething, or his first running 
about will delight her.” 

“ Is that the way ? ” says old Daddledy, with a second 
keen glance at Nora. Not that he is in the slightest 
degree taken in. To deceive an Irish peasant one would 
have to get up so early, that the exact hour has never 
yet been fixed. It remains a mystery. “ I’m proud to 
hear it,” says he. “ Better a man, like Carnegie, than a 
small, mane little boy, wid two minds ! ” 

This is so open an allusion to Ferris, that Nora frowns. 
Sophie, coming to the rescue, treats it lightly, in spite of 
that dangerous touch about the “ two mindsP 

“ A man is better than a boy always,” says she. “ But 
was Mr. Carnegie ever small and mean? And used he to 
have two ‘ minds ’ ? Travelling has probably improved 
him, He has been a-broad a great deal, hasn’t he?” 


152 


NOBA CBEINA. 


“ All over the airth ! ” says Daddledy, solemnly. “ Here 
an’ there, like ” 

“ Satan — or Sir Fell ! ” puts in Nora, contemptuously. 

“ If ye’re goin’ to say me words for me,” says Daddledy, 
deeply affronted, “I may as well go on wid me cabbages.” 

“ No — no, Daddledy ; don’t go yet,” says Sophie. “ Tell 
us about Mr. Carnegie. So he has been a great trav- 
eller?” 

“ Not a bit o’ the haythen world he hasn’t throd under 
fut ! so I’m tould. Better thread his . own dacent land, 
say I ; but young men will be quare.” 

“ Quite a travelled youth ! ” says Nora, still contemp- 
tuously, and with a little curl of her lip. 

“ Quite,” says Sophie. “ Not only has he walked in and 
out of all the haythen countries, but he has ploughed the 
raging sea in all directions, and ” 

‘‘ Arrah ! be aisy wid yer nonsense,” says Daddledy, 
interrupting her without ceremony — “ sich talk ! ” 
Poetry, Daddledy — mere poetry.” 

‘‘ To the devil wid yer pothery,” says Daddledy, now in 
a fine frenzy. “ Give me common sinse ! Arrah ! who 
could plough the say ? Tell me that now, an’ then I’ll be 
spakin’ to ye ! ” 

“ It has been done,” says Sophie, mysteriously. 

‘‘ Niver ! ” says Daddledy. 

“ Ask Mr. Carnegie ! He's done it,” says Sophie. “ He 
has ploughed lots of seas. Special patent, no doubt; but 
beyond dispute it has been doner 

“ ’Tis making fun o’ me, ye are,” says Daddledy, wrath- 
fully. Then, ‘‘Git along wid the two of ye. It’s at me 
work I’d betther be, than wastin’ me time on yer folly.” 

With this he walks away, plainly affronted, leaving 
the girls to laugh freely. 

“ What a cross old cat,” says Sophie. 

“ I never know whether he likes us, or hates us,” says 
Nora. 

“ Know it now. He hates us. He will betray us to Sir 
Fell, some day,” says Sophie. 

She might have grown even more eloquent on this sub- 
ject, but for an interruption. 

It comes in the shape of a head raised cautiously from 
behind a gooseberry bush on their right. 

“ Sophie ! ” says Mr. Butler, in a careful tone. 


NOBA CREINA. 


153 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

“ The blush is on the flower, and the bloom is on the tree, 

And the bonnie, bonnie sweet birds are carolling their glee ; 

And the dews upon the grass are made diamonds by the sun, 

All to deck a path of glory, for my own Cdilin Bonn. 

O ! fair she is. O ! rare she is ! O ! dearer still to me. 

More welcome than the green-leaf, to winter-stricken tree ; 

More welcome than the blossom, to the weary, dusty bee 
Is the coming of my true love — my own Cdilin Bonn,’''' 

“ Good gracious, is that you?” cries Sophie, running 
behind the gooseberry bush, and hurling herself into his 
arms. 

‘‘ I thought you were never coming this way,” says Mr. 
Butler, accepting his armful with joy. ‘‘ I’ve been hid- 
ing here for hours, as it seems to me, waiting for that old 
croaker to go away. Is that you, Xora?” seeing Xora 
standing in an uncertain way, as if hardly knowing 
whether to come on or go away, ‘‘ Carnegie gave me a 
message for you.” 

“Yes?” says Xora coming up to him now at once 
and giving him her hand — glad at the chance of being 
allowed to stay and talk with him and Sophie. 

“ He heard you say you wanted a little rough terrier, 
and he’s got one for you.” 

“ Oh, no. I don’t want it,” says Nora quickly. 

“ Nonsense, Nolly. Of course you want it,” says Sophie ; 
“ why, you’ve been dying for one for months. How good 
of Mr. Carnegie.” 

“ He’s bringing it down, I think,” says Butler. 

“ But,” begins Nora, and then stops dead short. How 
can she explain to them that if she takes this little terrier, 
Ferris will be angry. How is she to explain it to 
and how explain to the others her fear of his anger ? “ He 
is very kind,” says she, in a stifled tone. 

^‘He’s the best fellow I know,” says Butler, “But I 


154 


NOBA CBEINA. 


say, girls,” with a sudden change of tone, “ what of Sh 
Fell and Miss Baxter? ” 

‘‘ You have heard something then,” says Sophie. “ Let 
us supply the end. She has been here to-day. She has 
taken us to her heart. She has told us that she is about 
to become our step-step-mamma ! ” 

“ Isn’t it disgraceful of Sir Fell,” says ISTora. “ Really 
he is worse than Henry VIII. And to marry suJi a 
woman.” 

“ I suppose it will come off before Christmas,” says 
Sophie. 

“ Christmas ! ” says Denis. “ Is that all you know 
about it. It will come off before you have time to realize 
it. I met the Lacy girls just now, and Miss Baxter — get- 
ting back from your place. They were walking their 
pony up the hill, and I stopped to talk to them, and the 
lean one told me Miss Baxter is going to marry Sir Fell 
within a fortnight.” 

“ A fortnight ! But where ? Here ? ” 

‘‘Not here — in London. And they are to be away for 
a week and come back here directly afterwards.” 

“ Just in time for Lady Saggartmore’s big ball,” says 
Nora, with a rather tremulous little laugh. “So our 
doom is sealed ? ” 

“It looks like it,” says Butler, gloomily. “What is she 
like, Sophie ? Impossible, or the other thing ? ” 

“ Impossible ! ” says Sophie, with a gloom that puts 
his own into the shade. “We’re done for. I feel that.” 

“ She’s tremendous in every way,” says Nora. “ She 
is on the gigantic scale, massive — solid as her own dol- 
lars.” 

“ She’ll be able to keep Sir Fell in order at any rate,” 
says Sophie viciously, yet with a little laugh. 

“ And us, too, into the bargain,” says Nora, whereon 
Sophie’s laughter dies a sudden death. “ If she joins in 
with Sir Fell against us, I don’t know what is to become 
of us.” 

“ Perhaps she will make things pleasanter,” says Butler, 
but with little hope in his voice. 

“ Or unpleasanter,” says Sophie. 

“ You know more of her than I do,” says he. “How 
would you describe her ? What is she like, I mean ? ” 

“ She is wha,t the servants call ‘ a little shoH in her 


muA cnmnA. 155 

manner,’ ” says Sophie, whereon they all, in spite of them- 
selves — and a little sadly — laugh outright. 

“The ball,” says Nora. “I hope she won’t interfere 
with that. Lady Saggartmore’s small dances are well 
enough — but her big balls are so lovely. And we have 
been thinking already about our gowns, Sophie and I.” 

“ Yes. I’ve looked into it,” says Sophie, “ and have 
come to the conclusion that, black — and black alone — will 
be our wear. Our income, as regulated by Sir Fell, is so 
limited, that to dream of white would be madness. Even 
pink, or blue, are not admissible.” 

“ I shall get white,” says Nora desperately. 

“ You were always terribly rash,” says Soj)hie — “ to me 
remains the sense of all this family. You will get a 

white frock, and it will soil, and then Where will you 

be then? Now I shall get a black — a black — gown, 

and I shall wear it until it falls from mein graceful rags.” 

“I hope they lolll be graceful,” says Nora. “ Oh! no — 
I hate black. It is the emblem of unhappiness. The very 
thought of it makes me feel as if misery was approaching 

— as if she breaks off suddenly, and her pale little face 

grows paler. She is looking towards the far end of the 
path, and as Sophie’s and Butler’s eyes follow hers, they 
see Carnegie and Eusebius Brush coming towards them. 

Under Carnegie’s arm, is a little rough-haired Irish 
terrier, very purely bred. 

“ He’s brought it ! ” says Butler, with interest in his 
tone. 

“ Oh ! let us come and thank him,” says Sophie enthusi- 
astically. 

“ But Sophie — I don’t want it ; I To be under an 

obligation ! Sophie, stop ! ” cries Nora in agony. “ If I 
take it, he may think ” 

“ Tut ! Don’t be so conceited,” says Sophie. “ If every 
man that ever gave a woman a dog wanted to marry her 
there would be considerably more bloodshed on earth 
than there has been yet, and that’s saying a good deal. 
Here ! ” excitedly. “ Come on ! They can almost hear us 
now, and you hnoio Eusebius ! the least word is a mark for 
a jest.” 

“ But ” still protests poor Nora, clinging to her 

sleeve. 

“‘But me no buts,’” says Sophie. “For goodness’ 


156 


NonA cnmNA. 


sake, Nora, pull yourself together and don’t look like a 
dying duck in a thunder-storm.” 

“ I didn’t think you could be so unkind ! ” says Nora, 
in low, but thrilling accents. “ I thought you would have 

stood by me at all events, you — who ^Oh ! How d’ye 

do, Mr. Carnegie,” with a sudden bright, if troubled, smile. 
‘‘ How d’ye do, Eusebius.” 

“ I’m as well as circumstances will admit,” says Euse- 
bius. ‘‘ But that’s not saying much.” 

“ Oh ! Mr. Carnegie, what a lovely little dog,” says 
Sophie, putting out her hand to caress the little creature 
in his arms. 

“ I hope your sister will like him,” says Carnegie, 
looking straight at Nora. “ I have brought him to her. 
I heard her say the other day that she would like to have 
an Irish terrier.” 

“ For me ! ” says Nora faintly. “ How kind of you. 
And what a pretty dog ! ” 

‘‘ He won’t be always as small as he is now,” says Car- 
negie, as if apologizing. “ I know some women like very 
small dogs, but-^ — 

“ I don’t,” says Nora ; she has been looking at the 
little terrier pup all this time, who has been looking back 
at her with much purpose in his small, dark, clever eyes. 
“ I know what an Irish terrier means very well. He will 
be three times that size when he is fully-grown, and he will 
be rough and ugly, but beautiful. He will understand 
every word I say, and he will be devoted to me, and 
I ” 

“Well,” says Carnegie anxiously, “and you?” 

“I shall be devoted to him,” says Nora, vanquished by 
the little dog’s appealing eyes, and his evident desire to 
get from Carnegie’s arms into hers. 

“ You will accept him then ? ” says Carnegie quickly. 

“Yes,” returns Nora slowly, unwillingly. She holds 
out her arms to the dog and takes him. The terrier, after 
a moment, barks loudly, and looks back at Carnegie, and 
makes little plunges towards him, as though desirous to 
regain his former place. 

“He likes you best,” says Nora, then quickly: “Per- 
haps you had better take him back. He is happy with 
you.” 

“ He will be happier with you, unless he is the most 


noHA CUEINA, 157 

graceless dog in Christendom,” says Carnegie. “ There, 
now, see, he has taken to you at once.” 

And indeed the little thing has turned its small nose to 
Miss Carew, and is scrabbling and tearing at her as if in 
perfect unison with her. 

Has it a name ?” asks Nora, cuddling the little terrier 
closer to her. 

No. I have left you to find the name.” 

“ Still, you might help me,” says she. 

‘‘ If I may,” says he, delighted at the little kindly touch 
on her part. “ What do you think of ‘ Creina ?’ ” 

It is a most unfortunate suggestion, ‘‘ Nora Creina.” 
Nora frowns. 

“ A hideous name,” she says shortly. ‘‘ It suggests that 
ridiculous poem of which unhappily my own name bears 
a part. No ! Anything but that.” She turns away from 
him, and gives her attention to Eusebius. “ What brought 
you here to-day ? ” asks she. 

“Yes, Eusebius, what?” asks Sophie gaily. “Who 
sent you here ? ” 

Mr. Brush looks at her with a mournful air. 

“ Mamma ! ” says he, with beautiful simplicity. He 
sinks upon a crumbling garden seat, and slowly drawing 
a huge cabbage leaf out of his straw hat, begins to fan him- 
self laboriously. 

“ Eusebius ! Throw that horrid thing away,” cries 
Sophie. “ The very smell of it is abominable.” 

“ That sounds as if the look of it were worse still,” says 
Eusebius, examining the huge, limp, flabby thing with 
care. “ Yet it’s a fine leaf. I assure you I chose it with 
but one thought, its proportions attracted me. “Well, 
here goes ” — chucking it away — “ but I say, give me some 
sort of a fan instead, or I’ll melt from your gaze like a 
beautiful dream.” 

Here Nora breaking a branch off a laurel bush close by, 
gives it to him. 

“ This would take a prize,” says he, “ for perfume alone. 
It is of the deadly order ; it suggests prussic acid. Look 
here, girls ! Tell you something — my parent would take 
a prize too.” 

“ For leanness ? ” says Sophie. 

“No.” 

“ For her back then ! It is the youngest I ever saw for 


158 


l^OUA CBEinA, 


a woman of her age. See Aunt Maria’s back only, and 
you might readily believe her a girl of sixteen.” 

“No, by Jove, it’s not that either,” says Eusebius lazily. 
“ Though 1 confess her back is up. It’s for her temper 
she’d take it. Her back is a fraud. Most young people 
— always excepting Nora and you — are famed for their 
sweetness and light, and all that sort of thing, but ” 

“ Oh, get out,” says Butler. ^ 

“ But,” continues Eusebius unmoved and sighing deeply 
— so deeply that all his huge body seems to shake, “ my 
mother’s back’s no good in that direction ; and I can’t for- 
give her for it.” 

“What has she done now?” asks Nora. 

“ You may well ask,” says Eusebius. “ Because it is 
all you. She’s regularly on the champ, I can tell you.” 

“ All me ? ” Nora has come nearer to him, and is re- 
garding him with wide and haughty eyes — eyes that for- 
bid him to say further. Perhaps he would not have 
hesitated over the haughtiness, but something in the know- 
ledge that reaches him that the girl is trembling., stops his 
tongue; yet he would have liked to tell her all — to kill 
this mad passion for Ferris in her heart, and to kill it the 
more effectually by declaring his faithlessness before all 
these people — these friends assembled here. But seeing 
the girl standing before him, in her white gown, with her 
small hands clasped, and her, frowning brows, and her de- 
fiance, and her horrible fear that he will speak — All this 
strikes him dumb. 

“ Oh ! Only you, so far as that you are a pretty girl,” 
says he. “And Mrs. Yancourt detests pretty girls, and 
my mamma ” — genially — “ detests Mrs. Yancourt ; so when 
the latter said something about you that my mamma ” — 
pulling at his cigar — “ disliked, there was an almighty 
row. She has sent me over here to-day to request that 
both you and Sophie when next you meet Mrs. Yancourt 
will look through her as though she were a ghost.” 

“ What nonsense ! ” says Sophie. 

“ I shall certainly not do that,” says Nora. “ She must 
arrange her own quarrels and finish them all by herself.” 

“ There will be murder, I think,” says Eusebius com- 
placently. 

“If so, I hope Aunt Maria will murder Mrs. Yancourt,” 
says Sophie. “ I do hate that little French doll,” 


J^OttA cnMiNA. 159 

“ She is very pretty,” says Nora slowly, as if driven 
into saying it, “and she always dresses so well.” 

“ Like all Poitpees ! ” says Eusebius. “ They don’t sell, 
if they ain’t well robed.” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

“ I’ll pull you sweet flowers, to wear, if you choose them. 

Or, after you’ve kissed them, they’ll lie on my bosom. 

I’ll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you, 

I’ 11 fetch from my fancy a tale that won’t tire you, 

O! your step’s like the rain to a summer-vexed farmer, 

Or sabre or shield to a knight without armor, 

I’ 11 sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me. 

Then, wandering. I’ll wish you, in silence, to love me.” 

Nora turns aside a little abruptly. She walks away a 
step or two, pretending to fondle the little dog within her 
arms, though her thoughts are far from him, and presently 
finds herself listening to Carnegie. So full are her thoughts 
of other things that his voice seems to come to her from 
quite a long way off. 

“ You have made a conquest of that little beast,” says 
he. 

“Yes. He seems to like me,” says Nora, lifting her 
pathetic face to his. “ How strange, though — to like me 
so suddenly I mean. Love at first sight illustrated,” she 
laughs, but rather forlornly — Eusebius’ talk about Mrs. 
Yancourt has taken all the spirit out of her — “I don’t 
believe in that, do you? I feel sure he will go over to 
Sophie presently.” 

“ Why ? ” 

“ Because — I don’t know. I,” with a little quick sigh, 
“ I am not like Sophie. People may like me for an hour, 
or a day, but Sophie they like for months and years.” 

“ Your sister is a person very much to be admired,” says 
Carnegie slowly. “ But your sister is not you.” 

“No, just as I have said,” puts in Nora, nervously. With 
her doubts, her suspicions, of Carnegie’s admiration for 
her, what madness it was on her part to bring up such a 
discussion, but she had not thought of it when she began, 
she had thought only of the sorrow that is blighting her 
own young life. 


160 


nOBA CBEINA. 


No, you have not said it,” says Carnegie. “ If your 
sister is to be admired for months and years, you are to 
be loved— /br^yer.^” 

“ You are very kind,” says Nora, in a voice that is 
scarcely audible and with a hopeless attempt at a smile. 

Carnegie is silent. As a fact, speech is beyond him. 
His whole soul is lost in the knowledge that he loves her. 
Loves this small, fragile, cold, beautiful little girl who is 
standing beside him, with no more thought of him in her 
heart than if he had never existed. 

It seems terrible to him that he should so love her — 
this indifferent, sweet, little thing — this girl, who thinks 
as lightly of him as though he were the merest passing 
acquaintance ; Ae, to whom her lightest desire would be as 
law ; he, Avho loves her and longs for her, as never yet he 
thought he could long for anything. 

JIad he ever really longed for anything before ? He had 
wished for this thing or for that, but had he ever set 
his heart upon the gaining of anything? Everything, up 
to this, indeed, had come so easily, so lightly ; there had 
been so little difficulty about the obtaining of anything he 
desired, that he had scarcely desired it. That was the 
reason, perhaps, that he had never really cared ; but now 
he cares — now, when love has at last caught him between 
its wings, he flings his whole soul into the pursuit of the 
thing beloved — and a very honest soul it is. 

“ I am not kind,” says he at last. His voice is so differ- 
ent from his usual one, that involuntarily the girl looks up 
at him. She is sorry a moment later that she looked. 
His eyes are full of a meaning that almost frightens her, 
so intense it is — but even more than it frightens her, it 
repels. 

‘‘ Kind or not,” says she distinctly, though her heart 
has begun to beat with uncomfortable haste, ‘‘ I must ask 
you not to speak to me like that again.” 

She moves back to the others quietly, but with a decision 
that forbids further speech on his part, and goes up to 
Sophie, who is laughing gaily with Butler and Eusebius 
over little or nothing. Mr. Carnegie follows her — with 
a rather frowning broAV ; indeed she had not permitted 
him to remain behind ; she had made a little imperious 
movement to him to accompany her, that told him she 
declined to let the others have cause for thought about her 


mBA cnmKA. 


IGl 


in her relations with him. It was a haughty little gesture, 
but he had not dared to disobey it, even though he chafed 
under the obedience. 

“What are you laughing at, you two?” asks Nora, 
with a little restrained smile at the small merry group, 
as she approaches them. 

“ Oh, such a story,” says Sophie. “ Eusebius has been 
telling it to us. About Aunt Maria and ” 

Here she stops dead short, and, indeed they all turn with 
one consent in one direction. It is the direction from 
which a most remarkable sound has come — apparently 
through a gooseberry bush. 

u Sth— sth!” 

“ Good Heavens ! What’s that ? ” says Sophie. 

“ It’s Daddledy,” says Nora. 

“ No ! ” says Sophie, which explosive nowadays always 
means anything but what it seems to mean. 

But Daddledy it is ! 

“ Miss Sophie, Miss Sophie ! ” says he, sticking his old 
frowsy head through the branches of the gooseberry bush. 
“ Himself'^ s comiiH ! ” 

“Oh! Denis, go — go at once!” cries Sophie. “If he 
finds you here, I am lost. Mr. Carnegie and Eusebius 
can remain, but — I am afraid, Mr. Carnegie,” turning to 
him with an irrepressible but very nervous laugh — “ that 
we must let you into our little secrets. As I think I 
explained to you before, Sir Fell has — has ” 

“ Failed to discover the attractions of our dear Denis,” 
says Eusebius. “ Now then, Butler, I can hear the arch 
fiend’s step crunching round the corner. The cloven hoof 
is always unmistakable. Are you going, or are you pre- 
pared for instant annihilation ? ” 

“ Oh ! Denis, do go — if only for my sake,” says Sophie, 
in an agony. 

“ Misther Butler, dear, run,” says Daddledy, and as 
Butler is pushed by Sophie into the upper walk that will 
take him to the convenient breach in the wall by which 
he entered, the old man’s anxiety gets the better of 
him. “ Run, sir ! Run, ye divil ! ” says he in great ex- 
citement. 

Butler is perhaps Dac^dledy’s one delight. Is he not 
of good “ould family — raal ould stock”? Has he not 
often squeezed the welcome coin into his horny hand ? 


162 


NORA CREINA. 


Has he not always been the “ raal gintleman” all through ? 
And isn’t he an honest lover into the bargain ? 

“ O, Love is the soul of a neat Irishman,” 

says an old writer, and probably he knew. At all events, 
Daddledy, who has scorned love throughout his life, feels 
a distinct admiration for Denis in his character as lover. 
He has an equal detestation for Cyril Ferris, whose gauge 
he has taken to an inch, as only an Irish peastint can— 
without knowledge, without hint, and merely on sight. 

As the old man wheezes out his exclamation to Butler, 
all the others laugh. Sophie alone shrugs her shoulders, 
yet she turns a grateful glance on Daddledy. (“ I’ll give 
him something — something nice — if it costs me my last 
penny,” is her thought.) 

‘‘ Thank you,” says she out loud to the old man, who 
receives her gratitude with a grumpy air and trots back 
to his earthing. 

“ If you are all going to wait to see Sir Fell, I’m not,” 
says Sophie, with a distinctly vicious air, whereupon she 
marches forward and presently disappears from view. 

“ Beauty in distress,” says Eusebius. ‘‘ Carnegie, it 
grows late ; are you coming my way ? ” 

“Yes. Good-bye, Miss Carew.” He holds Nora’s 
hand for a prolonged moment, anxiously hoping for a 
sign of friendliness from her, but Nora keeps her eyes 
steadfastly fastened on the ground. The only grain of 
comfort he takes away with him is the remembrance of 
how she still holds the little terrier fondly enclosed within 
her arms. She has accepted him ; she even seems to 
love him. 

Nora, left alone, moves wearily homewards. Sir Fell, 
after all, had not come that way, being mercifully smitten 
with a desire to see what work old Daddledy had done 
amongst the late row of cabbages ; had he earthed them? 
Sir Fell requires as much work of Daddledy as though he 
were a young man of twenty, whilst giving him only half 
a man’s wages all the time. 

As Nora, still hugging the little dog to her bosom 
reaches the small iron gate that leads from the orchard 
to the flower-garden, a voice comes to her that makes 
her heart stand still. 

It is Cyril’s voice, and comes to her from behind a 


NOB A CBEINA. 


163 


quick- set hedge that grows on one side of the path 
that leads to this gate. From behind this hedge one 
could see, but not hear all that had been going on near 
the gooseberry bushes. 

“Nora ! ” says Ferris. His tone is sharp — angry. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

“ O ! the watcher longs for morning 
And the infant cries for light, 

And the saint for Heaven’s warning. 

And the vanquished pray for might, 

But their prayer when lowest kneeling, 

And their suppliance most true 
Are cold to the appealing 
Of this longing heart to you.” 

“ You! Is it you ?” cries Nora, in a subdued tone, yet 
one replete with amazed delight. So heartily glad a 
tone, indeed, that any man but the one in question would 
have received it at its own worth. 

“ Yes,” says Ferris. 

“ Oh, don’t stir — don’t come out,” cries Nora vehemently. 
“ Sir Fell is somewhere in the garden, and he is sure to 
be here presently, just because it is the last place in 
which he is wanted.” 

“ Well, he can come as soon as he likes,” says Ferris, 
preparing to push his way through the hedge. 

“ Oh, Cyril — but if he finds you — he will be so angry 
with me.” 

“ Why should he be angry ?” 

“ I don’t know,” miserably. “ Only you know he would, 
and besides,” desperately, “ he would talk about us, 
and ” 

Heaven alone knows what terrible grief it is to her to 
say this — to even hint at this — but she faces it bravely. 

“Well,” says he, coldly, “And ?” 

“ And I thought it might be bad for yow,” says slie. 
“Your people — you told me once they wished you to 
marry some girl with money, and I have no money, and if 
they heard ” 

She breaks down, her pretty lips are quivering. Her 
whole thought is of him, she does not spare even one for 


1G4 


CREINA, 


herself, yet certainly the knowledge that she would be 
despised by his people, and regarded in the light of a 
pauper, must, in a measure, have added to the anguish of 
the situation. 

“ Oh, I daresay they loill hear sooner or later,” says 
Ferris, to whom “ his people ” are more or less imaginary. 
“ No doubt they’ll throw me over when they do. But I’m 
not thinking of them now. I’m thinking of myself. I tell 
you,” savagely, “ I’m tired of all this sort of thing of 
hiding here and waiting there.” 

“ I am sorry,” begins Nora, who has grown very pale. 

“ Sorry, so am I. More sorry than I can tell you. Here 
have I been sitting here for a full half-hour, watching 
that fellow Carnegie making love to you, whilst you re- 
ceived his advances with smiling eyes.” 

“ I received no advances,” says Nora, compelling her 
white lips to speak. 

“No? You did not receive that little brute in your 
arms, I suppose ? ” 

“ This — this little dog ? ” says she. “ He brought it to 
me. I — I assure you, Cyril, I didn’t want to have it, but 
Sophie urged me to have it— and ” 

“ ‘ The woman persuaded me and I did eat,’ ” quotes he 
bitterly. “ It is always the same old story, one does what 
one wants to do.” 

“ You can misjudge me if you will,” says she, drawing 
back a step or two, “but,” haughtily, “nothing you or 
any one can say, can destroy the truth of my statement.” 

“Ah, it is so easy to say that,” says he. “\yords! 
what are they ? Mere sound really.” 

“ Am I to understand by that,” asks she, her nostrils 
dilating, her slight breast rising and falling tumultuously, 
“ that you believe I am not speaking the truth ? ” 

So stern are the lovely, earnest eyes directed upon him, 
that Ferris goes down before them. 

“ Of course I believe you,” says he, in a mumbling sort 
of way. “ But you think only of yourself — you think 
nothing of the torturing thirty minutes I have spent here, 
seeing that idiot making love to you.” 

“ How can I help it?” says Nora miserably, giving her- 
self away a little. 

“Ah, you confess it then. You encourage him, no 
doubt,” 


NORA CREINA. 


165 


•‘No, no, no.” 

“ Yes, you do. Though what the deuce you see in him,” 
with a disgusted frown, “is more than I can imagine.” 

“ I don’t want you to imagine it,” says Nora coldly. 
She feels crushed to the very soul. 

“Don’t you ? ” with a sneer. 

“No,” calmly. It is, however, the calm before the 
storm. 

“ A fellow all talk and clothes,” continues Ferris, ag- 
gressively, “got ten pockets to every one that any other 
fellow has. I hate that kind of thing.” 

“ I think he always looks very well dressed,” says Nora, 
calmly. 

“No doubt *you think him perfection.” He pauses, and 
then : “ So you deliberately support Carnegie ? ” says he, in 
a slow, but inwardly raging tone. 

“ Why do you talk to me like that ?” says she. “ Why 
should I support any one, why should I think of any one 
but you? ” 

“ You say that — yet you left me to stifle behind this 
hedge, whilst you ” 

“Don’t say it again,” says she, imperiously. “If you 
were stifling, why did you stay behind this hedge, why 
did you not come forward and join us ? ” 

Ferris hesitates before this question. Why, indeed ? 
How explain to her that he had meant to seek her — alone. 
Her — without witnesses. When he had seen her from his 
vantage ground, surrounded by Sophie and Butler and 
Carnegie and Eusebius, his mean soul had shrunk from 
letting his body come forward, lest his visit to the girl he 
loves in his half-hearted way, should be reported to the 
woman he loves for her money only. 

A happy thought strikes him as he struggles for an 
answer to her question. 

“ How could I come forward,” says he. “ who had 
been watching Carnegie’s attentions to you. You can say 
what you like, Nora, but he is in love with you.” 

“ Oh, I hope not,” says Nora very sadly. 

“You may hope as you like,” says he furiously, his 
temper once again getting the better of liim. “ I expect 
you will tell me next that that little brute under your 
arm was not given to you as a mark of affection from 
him.” 


166 


NOBA CBEINA, 


“We have discussed all that before,” says ^N’ora slowly. 
“ Why go into it again ? You know how this dog is mine. 
I do not disguise from you that I like the little thing, but 
I certainly — as you well know — do not like Mr. Carnegie, 
except as one likes a most ordinary acquaintance. I like 

him, but there is ” she pauses, and looks straight at 

Ferris, with her eyes wide and full of love, and her lips 
parted in a charming smile. “ There is only one person in 
all the wide, big world whom I love,” she holds out one 
hand to him, smiling divinely, “that one is says 

she. 

Ferris catches her hand and presses it to his heart. 
This is but a preliminary. Presently he has taken har 
into his arms. 

“ Nora, forgive me,” says he. “ I say things hard to 
forgive, but surely it is my love for you alone that drives 
me to it. And now, just now, when I must leave you, I 
cannot bear to think that you will be ” 

“Leave me?” She presses him back from her, and 
looks into his face with frightened eyes. 

“ For a fortnight only — or three weeks at the latest. I 
start to-morrow, but I shall certainly be back for Lady 
Saggartmore’s ball. But, Nora, you will remember me 
all the time. You will think of no one else all the time I 
am away ? Speak^ Nora.” 

“ You know it,” says she, clinging to him. “ Cyril, you 
will be back then ? ” 

“Beyond all doubt. Do you,” passionately, “think I 
could keep away ? ” 

“ And — you love me — me only ? ” 

“ Nora ! Nora ! Who is there under Heaven who could 
be compared with you ? ” 

So they part. 


CHAPTER XXTX. 

“ Methinks that there are passions 
Within that heaving breast.” 

Sir Fell’s third wedding-day has come and gone. The 
engagement had lasted only a Aveek — the honeymoon five 
days. The new Lady Anketell had evidently been in a 


NORA CREINA. 


167 


hurry to return home, and take up her position as the 
‘‘ lady of a Baronet,” as, I regret to say, she expressed it ; 
and to make certain changes and improvements in the 
beautiful, but gaunt old house that now calls her mis- 
tress. 

The marriage had taken place in Dublin, and had been 
strictly private. Even Nora and Sophie had not been in- 
vited to it — much to Sophie’s disgust at all events — who 
liked excitement of any sort. Miss Baxter had felt disgust 
at the quietness of the affair too, but had sensibly assured 
herself that, as this was the last time her future husband 
should measure his will with hers with any chance of vic- 
tory, it was better to let things go as he ordained. To be 
Lady Anketell was her one desire, and to compass that, 
was even worth giving in to the tyrant man for once in 
her life at all events. 

The girls had enjoyed their five days of liberty more 
than they could say. No doubt Cyril’s being away made 
them a little blank to Nora, but with the sense of loneli- 
ness that went with his absence, was a blessed sense also 
of freedom from that most cursed of all torments — jealousy. 
If not with her, he was also not with Mrs. Yancourt, who 
still remained on at Saggart. And his letters to Nora were 
constant enough — and if careful — ^well she never saw that 
they were careful, poor child ! 

It would be superfluous to say that Mr. Butler spent 
all his mornings and the best half of his evenings at 
Dunmore. And he and Sophie were more than good to 
Nora. They would not let her thmk herself de trap. 
They took her on their excursions through the shady 
woods, and by the banks of Saggart river, and in fact 
wherever they roamed all over the lovely neighborhood. 
Sophie felt that Nora’s heart was sad, and to leave her 
alone to brood over her sorrows seemed both to her and 
her Denis, well — ‘‘ a mean sort of thing to do.” 

Then came the return of the newly-married pair, and 
the excitement ensuing upon it. An excitement that grew 
daily after their return. 

“ When Greek meets Greek, 

Then comes the tug of war ! ” 

And from the very first it was plain to all beholders 
that there would be a tussle for supremacy between Sir 
Fell and his new bride. Nora and Sophie looked on with 


168 


NORA CREINA. 


a keen and most pardonable curiosity, and when the third 
day had dawned, if betting had been one of their accom- 
plishments, they would have freely laid on the late Miss 
Baxter. 

There had been a slight skirmish between the bride and 
bridegroom on their arrival. It took ^place in the hall, 
and was witnessed by the servants and the two girls, who 
(the latter) had of course hurried down to greet them, 
though with very uneasy hearts. The skirmish was short 
but decisive, slight but very significant — and Miranda had 
been the victor ! 

She had carried her point, and that in a high-handed, 
loud and cheerful fashion that spoke volumes for her suc- 
cess in the future. It was plain she could keep her temper 
under difficulties ; and the one who can do that has already 
won half the battle. Sir Fell had fumed, had protested, 
and finally had flung himself into his library, slamming the 
door behind him. He had, however, reappeared in time 
for dinner with as smiling a countenance as IN'ature (who 
had been most generous with the vinegar at his conception) 
would allow, and the first evening had passed off agreeably 
enough. 

But it is on this, the fourth evening, that the great row 
royal occurs. 

Dinner is over, dessert is on the table. A very different 
dessert from the old days, and a dessert plainly disap- 
proved of by Sir Fell. He has, indeed, during all these 
past four days, been muttering objections to this and that 
little extravagance, all without result. The eight o’clock 
dinner upon which Lady Anketell has insisted, and the 
comfortable two o’clock luncheon, have all been abomin- 
ations to him, as 'meaning the spending of so much more 
money. But Miranda has listened to the mutterings, and 
in her loud, carry-all-before-it manner, has declined to be 
biassed by them. She has had her large fortune carefully 
settled on herself to the last penny, and can now afford to 
defy Sir Fell in safety. To do her justice, I think she would 
have preferred not to defy him, but having managed her- 
self and her affairs with much aplomh all her life, it seems 
absurd — nay impossible — to truckle under to any one now. 
Generous at soul, she would have all things decent and in 
order wheresoever she sojourns, and Sir Fell’ s petty mean- 
nesses, and his desires to pare there and scrape here, are 
as abominations in her sight. 


NO HA C REIN A. 1G9 

‘‘Well, girls,” says slie now, cheerily, “what about your 
get-up for this ball of Lady Saggartmore’s ? ” 

As I have said, dessert is on the table, and the servants 
have withdrawn. Both Nora and Sophie look up quickly, 
as if surprised, as indeed they are. All these past four 
days they have been slowly learning that Miranda, how- 
ever terrible in many ways, however hopelessly vulgar and 
impossible, is evidently bent on being civil to But 

this leading question — What does it mean ? 

“ Our — frocks ? ” questions Sophie. 

“ Just so,” says Miranda unabashed. “ Or skirts or 
gowns, or costumes, whatever you like to call them. 
What are they ? ” 

“We have two white muslins,” says Sophie, who had 
abandoned the idea of black after all. 

“ New ? ” 

“ Well — not altogether,” says Sophie, placidly. 

“ I know what that means,” says Miranda briskly. 
“You needn’t explain further. Washed half-a-dozen 
times and gone in the seams. Not for me, thank 
you.” 

But,” begins Nora. 

“ Not another word! ” says Miranda raising a gigantic 
hand, literally covered with rings of the gaudiest de- 
scription. “ Look here, Tm going to take you to Lady 
Saggartmore’s — it will be your first appearance in public 
with me, and you must leave it to me to fig you out 
properly.” 

Here Sir Fell, who has been wriggling in his chair for 
the past few minutes, breaks into the conversation, which 
threatens to grow embarrassing. 

“ I must beg you to believe, Miranda, that both Nora 
and Sophie have always been considered well dressed 
wherever they went in this county.” 

“ Who told you ? ” asks Miranda with dangerous curi- 
osity. 

“ I have been given to understand it. I have seen for 
myself. I have no doubt at all that the gowns of which 
Sophie speaks are all they ought to be.” 

“Haven’t you? I have,” says Miranda quite pleas- 
antly. 

“ You don’t — ahem ! — you don’t then choose to take 
my word for it ?” 


170 


NORA CREINA, 


“Not much I don’t!” cheerfully. “What man ever 
understood how a girl should be dressed unless he was 
in love with her. And a muslin that has been through 
the tub six times ” 

“ Sophia,” demands Sir Fell, angrily, “ is that the truth ? ” 

“ N — ot the whole truth ! ” says Sophie with gentle 
hesitation, who is beginning to enjoy herself immensely. 

“ I thought so,” triumphantly. “ Now you will be so 
good as to tell Lady Anketell — as she chooses to dis- 
believe me — how many times your evenings frocks have 
been washed.” 

“ Seven times ! ” says Sophie, meekly. 

“Sophia,” begins Sir Fell furiously, but his fury is 
drowned in his new wife’s resounding laugh. 

“Ha, ha, ha!” cries she. “You see I understand 
more than you think. These girls must have new gowns 
for this ball. I want them to be a credit to me. Now, 
girls, what do you say to white silk underskirts — cream- 
color, you know — and white net over them ? Very tasty, 
eh?” 

“ White silk ! For girls so young ! Ridiculous ! Pre- 
posterous ! ” says Sir Fell, whose mean soul grows wroth 
at the idea of the spending of so much money. “ I forbid 
it — once for all I forbid it.” 

“ Nonsense!” says Miranda gaily. “TFAo are you 
going to forbid? Not me, for one. Would you like 
white silk, girls — covered as I say ? ” 

“ I ,” begins Nora, stammering, who is watching Sir 

Fell’s lowering face and is frightened. It seems terrible 
too, to be so altogether dependent upon this new Lady 
Anketell — this complete and very vulgar stranger — but 
for all that, there rises in her mind the vision of herself 
gowned decently for the first time in all her life. Enter- 
ing that lovely ball-room at Saggartmore in a gleaming 
delicate robe — able to hold up her head with the best of 
them, and without that wasting, worrying determination 
to try and think she is not the shabbiest girl in the room 
— Oh! the joy of it. Why, even Mrs. Vancourt would 
not be better dressed, perhaps, and Cyril — Cyril, who 
had never seen her except in old or dingy clothes — what 
would Cyril think? 

Sophie, however, has not let thought deprive her of 
speech. 


iroBA cnmisrA. 


171 


“ I have,” says she solemnly, gazing at Lady Anketell, 
‘‘ I have all my life had one desire — and that was for a 
white silk dress covered with something soft.” 

“ Good ! ” says Miranda, clapping her huge hands. 
“ Consider it yours.” 

‘‘ What is the meaning of this extravagance ? ” exclaims 
Sir Fell. “ Would you put these girls beside themselves ! 
Far better spend your money on this house — this house 
that you can see is going to rack and ruin, than foster 
the vanity of a pair of worthless girls.” 

“ What’s the row ? ” asks Miranda, whose temper is un- 
impaired. 

“ I won’t have the girls pranked out like that, I tell 

you. When you married me ” He pauses — some last 

sense of shame perhaps holding him back. 

‘‘ Well ? ” asks Miranda, who is calmly and with evident 
enjoyment digging a strawberry into crushed sugar with 
a view to consuming it. “ ‘ When you married me ’ ? 
Now, do keep your temper — do be patient, and let’s hear 
all about it.” 

Now to tell a person to be patient is only to make him 
impatient. Sir Fell uprears himself. 

‘‘ When I married you,” says he, his aristocratic nose 
taking a still more downward curve, “I certainly ex- 
pected you would lay out your money on the house and 
grounds, and help me to pay off existing debts.” 

‘‘ Quite so,” says Miranda, swallowing her strawberry. 
“ I didn’t expect you would put it into words, but I quite 
acknowledge Avhere my existing debt comes in. You 
think me common I know,” says she with a straight look 
at him that brings a dark red to his cheek, ‘‘ but I should 
think the commonest thing out would be to tell a woman 
whose money you were glad to get that you had married 
her for that money. Such things are understood, not 
spoken. However, that’s neither here nor there, and,” 
with quite a friendly air, ‘‘ it will save trouble, if I say at 
once that I am going to do just what I like with my 
money. See? You make up your level mind to that. 
I’ll see about the house and grounds and the debts by de- 
grees, and when it suits me — but I’m not going to be brought 
to account for every penny I choose to spend. And I’m 
not going, either, to take the girls round the county with 
me, looking like dowdies, whilst Fm clad in purple and 


m 


JSfOitA cjnmNA. 


fine linen. I don’t want to be called a bad step-mother 
or any other names.” 

“ Thinking of yourself, as usual,” sneers he. 

“ I’m only thinking that the girls would like new 
frocks,” says she, bluntly. “ And as for you. What do 
you think of ? Of No. 1, if 7 know you, and Miranda 
Baxter is seldom at fault.” 

As she says this she squares her large shoulders, and 
looks as though she were making ready for battle at any 
moment. 

Nora makes a little imperative terrified gesture to 
Sophie ; against all rules she would have risen and left the 
room if Sophie would have come Avith her. But Sophie 
is anxious for the denouement! And Sir Fell, white with 
rage, is just about to speak. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

“ O glorious songs, 

That rouse the brave ’gainst tyrant wrongs, 

Kesounding near and far. 

Mingled with trumpet, and with drum, 

Your spirit-stirring summons come.” 

‘‘ I MUST request, Miranda ! ” begins Sir Fell, with his 
most pompous air, but yet with a rage so strong that, 
though he does his best to suppress it, it absolutely shakes 
him. Indeed, as he leans his knuckles on the table-cloth 
— (he is standing) — to steady himself, they shoAV out 
white, so fierce is the pressure on them. “I must re- 
quest, Miranda — that if you respect nothing else — neither 
modesty — nor good manners — nor decent behavior, that 
you will respect the fact that — Avhatever you Avere before ” 
— (with Avithering accents) — “ you are noAV my wife ! ” 

“ Thank you, for nothing ! ” says Miranda ; noAV mildly 
incensed, but still far from downright anger of any sort. 

My wife!'^'" repeats Sir Fell — as though this is his 
sounding board — the one thing likely to bring her to a 
proper frame of mind. “ You have a position to uphold 
in this county. I shall expect you to so demean your- 
self that, if possible^'* bitterly — “ people will respect and 
honor you.” 


NOBA CBElNA, 


173 


“ Why, that is just what I desire myself,” says Mi- 
randa, blandly. They shall see what an excellent friend 
I am going to be to these poor orphaned girls ! ” 

“They have existed without you for a considerable 
number of years,” says Sir Fell icily. “ They would prob- 
ably have continued to do so had they never seen you. 
But I am not bringing them into this discussion ; and I 
think” — with a glance full of hatred at the girls, who 
have been for the past three minutes very eager to get 
away — “ that they would have shown some small sign of 
delicacy, had they withdrawn before this painful scene 
began.” 

“Oh! can we go?” cries Nora, starting to her feet. 

“ Oh — thank you,” says Sophie, making, rather reluc- 
tantly, however, for the door. 

“No — don’t go,” says Miranda loudly. “Stop here, 
girls. What ? ” — turning to Sir Fell — “ Are you ashamed 
of anything you are going to say ? ” 

“ Certainly not,” frowning. “ Nora ! Sophia ! As Lady 
Anketell has chosen to put the matter in this light, I now 
command you to remain, and hear the justice of this case.” 

“ But ” begins Sophie fractiously. 

“ Sit down. Do you hear ? ” says Sir Fell, in a low 
tone, but savagely; whereupon the girls, very unwill- 
ingly, return to their seats. 

“ You will remember that we did not wish to remain,” 
says Sophie, letting her eyes rest defiantly upon Sir Fell. 
So replete with rage is the glance she receives in return, 
however, that she is glad to let her eyes sink once more 
upon her plate, where the strawberries lie untouched. 
As for Nora — she is pale, trembling, thoroughly un- 
nerved. 

“Well?” says Miranda, nodding to Sir Fell to go on. 
“ We are waiting.” 

“ I was going to say — ” says Sir Fell ; the veins in 
whose forehead are now swelled out, and whose mouth is 
white, and his nostrils dilated — “ and as you have de- 
sired the attention of the girls, I beg they will listen to 
me ! that as I have married you — you, who were of no 
family whatsoever— and have given you a good old name 
— I shall require at your hands that you will respect that 
name, and try, at all events,” (this most offensively) “ to 
live up to it ! ” 


174 


mitA CHEIKA. 


There is a slight pause — the very slightest in the world, 
and then ” 

“ Oh ! go to the deuce ! ” says Miranda. 

An awful — a grisly silence, follows upon this. 

The girls sit as still and silent as if frozen to their 
chairs. As for Sir Fell, who shall measure the depth of 
his righteous rage. That he — he — Avho has successfully 
tyrannized over two well-born, irreproachable wives — 
should now be told by a third — who has not the smallest 
pretensions to family of any sort — ‘‘ to go to the deuce ! ” 
is hardly to be believed. 

Nora, shivering with horrible anticipation of an out- 
break on the part of Sir Fell, sits motionless — with pale face 
bent over her plate. Sophie is almost as unhappy, for she 
is struggling with an agonized knowledge that soon — very 
soon — she is going to give way to a wild burst of laughter. 

The deadly quiet penetrates at last even to Miranda’s 
phlegmatic breast. Up to this she has noticed nothing ; 
and if she has thought at all, only to wonder why Sir Fell 
has not gone on with his ‘‘ rubbishing remarks about his 
mouldy old family ” — this is how she would have put it. 
To Miranda, to tell a.perSon to ‘‘go to the deuce ! ” means 
really little or nothmg. It is a mere figure of speech — 
and means merely — “2>o have some common sense.” 
Now, amazed at the absence of all sound, she looks up 
from a hearty enjoyment of her second help of strawber- 
ries, to cast wondering eyes round the table. 

Those eyes catch Sophie’s, which are now suffused with 
tears, through their owner’s desperate efforts to conceal 
the mirth that is now rapidly conquering her. 

“ What’s the matter with you,” says Miranda, staring 
at her. “ If you want to laugh, why don’t you do it ? ” 

Why, indeed? The new Lady Anketell demands an 
answer to this sensible query with distinct curiosity, and 
it proves the finishing touch to Sophie’s already over- 
Avrought strength. It is more than she can endure. Her 
pretty lips part, and, to Nora’s horror, a mad, soft ripple 
of laughter breaks from her. 

It is infectious. Miranda, catching all at once (and for 
the first time) the comical side of the matter, begins to 
laugh too, her loud, awful laugh, that makes the rafters 
shake, and that always brings Sir Fell to the verge of curs- 
ing. 


Non A CnElNA. 


175 


Altogether the situation is frightful ! Miranda shouting 
at the top of the table, Sophie in fits of laughter at the 
side — Sir Fell at the end, regarding them both with a stony 
eye ; and Nora petrified, staring at Sophie from the seat 
opposite to her. 

Sir Fell, in a lucid interval, has marked Nora’s horror; 
and has soothed his soul with the thought that, at all 
events, one is on his side — but there is worse still to come ! 

Nora is indeed petrified — such insubordination has re- 
duced her to a state of terror hardly to be described. Sit- 
ting there, however, staring, as I have said, at her reckless 
sister, she feels all suddenly that something is going wrong 
with the muscles of her mouth. Apparently they are giv- 
ing way. She makes an effort to pull herself together — 
to defy this new sensation — to avoid the common destruc- 
tion that is so surely falling upon these two frivolous 
lunatics before her — but in vain ! To her horror she finds, 
all at once — that she is laughing too! Laughing — not 
secretly — but distinctly — positively — frantically. 

“ Ha — ha — ha ! ” laughs Miranda. “ That’s right, girls. 
There’s nothing like a good laugh ; and I declare I haven’t 
had one for over a month. I say,” addressing Sir Fell — 
‘‘ Why don’t you join in — eh ? Do you a lot of good. Ha ! 
Ha ! Take the starch out of you ! ” 

This is too much. Sir Fell, with a muffled execration, 
rises from the seat into which he has fallen as if palsied, 
and with much dignity, and a stride that would have 
worked wonders on the stage, quits the room. 

“ Oh ! Miranda,” cries Sophie — her untoward mirth 
suddenly checked. She looks at Lady Anketell, trem- 
bling ; and it is noticeable that she has called her for the 
first time by her Christian name. Are they not now com- 
panions in misfortune ? — and misfortune makes more links 
than its happier brother. “ What have you done ? He 
will never forgive us — never. He will be angry ! ” 

“ Let him !” says Miranda, with a fine courage. 

“ But he will visit all this upon you later,” says Nora, 
who has now forgotten her own bad case in thinking of 
Miranda’s — “ you don’t know him as well as we do. He,” 
nervously, in a low tone, and with an anxious glance at 
the door. “ He is very vindictive.” 

But all these warnings are plainly wasted on Miranda. 

“ Look here ! ” says she cheerfully. “ If you two girls 


176 


NOUA CUEINA, 


are afraid of any man living — Fm not ! I defy any man 
born (or woman either for the matter of that) to frighten 
me. I’m usually all there! And, take my word for it, 
Sir Fell will get over this.” 

If not on you,” says Sophie, who, now her burst of ill- 
advised merriment is at an end, is beginning to quake — 
“ he will certainly visit it upon and make it very un- 
pleasant for us too.” 

“ I’ll see to that ! ” says Miranda, who in truth seems 
very capable. Her whole air restores courage to them, and 
they now regard her with an altered vision — one that is 
full of hope, and belief. 

“ Sit down girls, and finish your strawberries,” says 
Miranda encouragingly, “.they’re first-rate. Good as if 
they came out of Covent Garden.” 

“ I couldn’t eat anything,” says Nora, whose heart is 
still in her mouth. 

“Tut!” says Miranda, contemptuously but kindly. 
“ There is nothing on earth good enough — or bad enough — 
to destroy the flavor of one’s food. And as for Sir Fell — 
Look here! I’m open to a bet that he’ll never say an- 
other word about this affair. Why,” throwing out her 
hands expansively, “ what did it all come to ? I only told 
him to shut up ! Fact is, girls, I can’t have that ‘ fine old 
name ’ of his, put down my throat on all occasions. I’ve 
given him my fine new money in exchange for it, and as 
/lo3k at it that makes us quits.” 

She glances round, first at one girl — then at the other, 
but though both are dying to speak, they hesitate a little 
too long. 

“ I see you don’t agree with me,” says Miranda at last 
— not in the least ill-naturedly, but perhaps with a touch 
of disappointment. This touch fires the mine. 

“ Miranda ! ” says Sophie, solemnly. “ Don’t mistake 
me. So far as Tm concerned, I think you are a thousand 
times too good for Sir Fell.” 

“ Ah ! ” says Miranda, her large countenance shines, 
she smiles upon Sophie with a very honest delight, but 
then suddenly turns back to Nora. Nora has not spoken 
— yyill Nora speak? Strange as it may seem, Miranda’s 
heart has turned from the beginning, not to the merry 
Sophie, but to the self-contained and somewhat repellant 
Nora! 


KonA cnmi^A, 


117 


As she looks at her, Nora rises, pauses a second, and 
then runs to her and throws her slender arms around her 
neck. 

“ Oh, I am glad you have come to live with us,” says she. 

It is a complete victory ! Miranda clasping the girl to 
her ample bosom whilst holding out a hand to Sophie 
(who too embraces her), vows to do her very best for the 
happiness of these two pretty creatures who have been 
thrown thus into her life. 

* # * * * 

Miranda had told the girls that she thought Sir Fell 
would make no further allusion to the disturbance of the 
evening, and subsequent events prove her right. To the 
astonishment of Nora and Sophie, Sir Fell takes no further 
notice of the indignities from which he suffered on that 
occasion, and is, if possible, rather more polite thanusual 
to them all, next morning. 

Miranda — if distinctly vulgar — is decidedly an acquisi- 
tion. Indeed from this time forth a change for the better 
is recognizable in Sir Fell ; a change on the surface only, 
no doubt, but still to be welcomed. Miranda’s robust 
personality pervading the house as it does, from base- 
ment to garret, seems to dAvarf his, and her imperturbable 
good humor belittles hopelessly his bursts of petty temper. 

On the whole the girls begin to look on the advent of 
the new Lady Anketell as a turn for the better in their 
fortunes, and apart from that more selfish consideration 
of her, they both, though shyly at first, grow to love her 
for her own sake, more and more, day by day 1 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

“ Oh ! the blossoms are fading 
And falling away, 

For the summer is gone 
And they haste to decay, 

And his heart since the sunshine 
It bloomed in hath fled. 

Must soon like the flowers 
Lie withered and dead.” 

“ This is the seventh dance,” says Lord Saggartmore, 
pausing beside his handsome Avife to point out Ferris to 

12 


178 


NOUA CnmNA, 


her, who is Mrs. Vancourt’s partner. “ And still he has 
not asked Nora to dance.” 

“ Nora? No,” says Lady Saggartmore, her kindly face 
growing grave. “ I fear there is something wrong there, 
yet at one time, I certainly thought he was in love with 
her.” 

“ Well, he looks as if he were in love with Mrs. Yan- 
court now,” says Saggartmore, a big burly man with light 
hair and eyes. 

“ If I had thought — if I had imagined she was going to 
interfere with Nora’s happiness, I should not have asked 
her here,” says Lady Saggartmore with a frown, that sits 
but ill upon her large, fair, beautiful face. 

“ Perhaps your having asked her here is the kindest 
thing you have ever done for Nora,” returns her husband, 
with a lifting of his brows. 

“ Oh ! That from you. As if I ever wanted Cyril here,” 
says she. “ You know I have always rather disliked him 
than otherwise.” 

“ He’s not a bad fellow when all is told,” says Saggart- 
more, in a rather apologetic tone. “ And he can shoot, 
which is more than one can say of all one’s acquaintances. 
But as a lover I shouldn’t covet him, if I w^ere a girl.” 

“ And such a girl as Nora is,” says Lady Saggartmore, 
with a sigh. ‘‘ How beautiful she looks to-night. I must 
say that dreadful step-mother seems to be turning out 
very well. How^ charming their frocks are ! ” 

“ Very smart, indeed ! ” says Saggartmore, sticking his 
glass in his eye to look at Nora, wlio has just entered the 
room. I must say she seems to be bearing up pretty 
well under Ferris’ inconstancy,” says he at length. 

‘‘ She is dancing with St. John Carnegie,” says Lady 
Saggartmore with interest. “ Ah ! There is a real man. 
I wish my dear little girl would turn her attentions to 
him, rather than to that worthless Cyril. I can’t tell you 
how I like that child. She is so gentle, so earnest. When- 
ever I look at her I think of those lines — what are they ? 

“ ‘ Her fair and glorious head.’ 

There is much meaning in that little head I believe, 
and much too much feeling in her heart. I feel towards 
her sometimes as though she were my daughter.” 


NORA CREINA. 


179 


“Your sister, my clear! your sister,” corrects Sag- 
gartmore promptly. 

“ Oh ! George,” says she laughing, hut very pleased. 
“Ah ! there is Lady Ballyhrig! she has come at last ! — 
Constance 1 ” hurrying forwards — “ we had quite lost all 
hope.” 

“Never lose hope about me!” says Lady Ballyhrig 
gaily. “I’m always sure to turn up. I’m a living 
illustration of the illegal halfpenny. But what is the 
matter with you and George ? As I came in, you were 
both looking, oh ! so dull ! ” 

“ We were discussing a little friend of ours, who seems 
in had case,” says Lady Saggartmore hurriedly. 

“ Dying ? ” sympathically. 

“ Oh ! no — not so bad as that, I hope,” says she. 

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

Meantime, the ‘‘ little friend ” is getting through the 
hours as best she may. The lovely dance to which she 
had looked forward with such high hopes, and such sure 
belief, seems fated to fall dead as leaves in autumn. He, 
to whom her heart forever turns, has held apart from 
her, never beyond the first simple greeting acknowledging 
her presence in the room ; and without him, what is the 
night ? Where is the splendor in the fiowers, the music 
in the dripping fountains, the quick delight in life that 
makes the feet move gladly to the sound of the joyous 
music ? 

“ Without him nought soever is, 

Nor was afore, nor e’er shall be, 

Nor any other joy than his. 

Wish I for mine to comfort me.” 

When Carnegie had asked her to dance, she had felt a 
certain sense of anger — he, whom she cannot love, desires 
to be with her — whilst Ferris, to whom her whole heart 
is given, holds back from her. The knowledge, too, that 
some of her friends have believed Ferris to be in love 
with her, destroys all joy in her, a»d creates in her a 
terrible sense of shame. What are they saying now, 
whispering one to one — are they calling her forsaken — 
making little jests about her, saying smart things about 
her ? Oh, no — oh, no — she must be growing wicked to 
accuse her friends of such actions as these. 

And yet she feels nervous, as though every one is look- 


180 


NORA CREINA. 


ing at her, pitying her. She loses herself a little some 
times, and a faint pallor grows upon her cheek, a coldness 
round her lips, and all the time she has to answer to 
Carnegie’s conversation, and seem as though she is 
happy ! Happy ! She could have laughed aloud, had she 
dared, at the madness of it. 

Carnegie, who is very nearly as unhappy as she is, 
having noticed the sad white look on the beautiful little 
face so dear to him, is still keeping up the ball of conver • 
sation with a determination that ought to win him a 
cross of some kind. He had arrived rather late ; the very 
fact of his wishing to be here early had seemed to retard 
all his movements. His one desire had been to see Nora 
as soon as possible, and everything had combined to delay 
the fulfilment of that desire. 

His very dressing had gone against him. His brush 
and comb would not obey orders, his studs refused to be 
found. His collars were nowhere, and his ties had taken 
French leave. Finally, when he got to the Castle, he 
found Nora with a card almost full, and a face so sad, 
through its forced smiles, that all pleasure for him for 
the night was ettectually killed. 

That her face should be sad ! Hers ! 

“ O sweetest face of all the faces 
About my way. 

A light for night and lonely places 
A day in day ! ” 

He had gained a dance from her, however, the sixth. 
It is now at an end, and as he still lingers beside her, 
loth to depart, Ferris comes up to her, with such a sure 
air, that Carnegie — believing him to be her partner for 
the waltz just beginning — bows and withdraws. 

“May I have the next?” asks Ferris, in a rather 
defiant manner. In fault himself, as he knows he is, a 
very passion of anger against her — of jealousy — because 
of Carnegie’s honest admiration for her, is making his 
blood hot within Ms veins. 

“ The next ? I am engaged,” says Nora. She speaks 
quite gently, yet her pulses are throbbing wildly, and a 
sad, sad longing to go away somewhere, and cry her 
heart out, is troubling her. To cry — on this night ! 
This night, to which she had been looking forward for 
\yeeks, trusting in her pretty new gown to defy all 


NORA CREINA. 


181 


rivalry? Yet, up to this, she has heeji defied ! A sense 
of passionate resentment upholds her. She even man- 
ages so far as to smile at him. She has had to smile a 
good deal of late ? And oh, the awfulness of this per- 
petual smiling, with a slowly breaking heart. 

“ Engaged ! ” He looks at her. To Carnegie, no 
doubt.” 

“No,” says she calmly. 

“ May I see your card ? ” 

“ That is so rude,” returns she, with a pretty and very 
successful attempt at gaiety. “ But — you may.” 

“ As I thought,” says he, after a swift glance at it. 

“ What ? I am certainly not engaged to him for the 
next.” 

“ If not,” gloomily, “ for the one after. It is all the 
^ame. And as a fact your card seems to have only his 
name on it.” 

This is the merest spleen, as, however full her card 
may be (and it leaves but two blanks), Carnegie’s name 
appears upon it only three times. 

“ And youi' card ? ” asks she, still with that pitiful 
attempt at gaiety. “Whose name is ‘only’ upon 
yours ? ” 

“ Heaven knows ! ” returns Ferris, adroitly, and with 
all the air of one indifferent to things of earth. “ No one 
for whom I care a farthing, at any rate.” 

In spite of herself — against the inward spirit that 
warns her against him — this sorry reply of his gives balm 
to her poor hurt soul. “No one for whom I care a far- 
thing,” the words are vulgar in themselves, but ordinary, 
and to her full of hope renewed. It must be remembered, 
in her defence, that she believes in him, honestly, sin- 
cerely, and whilst sorely puzzled at times, still with a 
generosity that belongs to her, flings aside doubts, and 
tells herself that for this or for that reason he has behaved 
in such a wise. 

“ You have only the thirteenth, I see,” says he, his eyes 
wandering over her card. 

“ A lucky number ! ” returns she, smiling, as he scrib- 
bles down his name. 

“The sixth from this.” Then, in a most uncivil tone : 
“You will not forget? You will not give it to Oarixe- 
^ie?” 


182 


NOB A C REIN A. 


“No.” She can hardly get the word out. She feels 
choked, as though speech is beyond her. Yet she con- 
quers herself. “Why should I not remember?” asks 
she. “Why should I not be f/lad to remember ?” 

Something in her eyes makes the question terrible to 
him ! 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

“ So come in the evening, or come in the morning, 

Come when you’re called for, or come without warning, 

Kisses and welcome you’ll find here before you. 

And the oftener you’re here, the more I’ll adore you. 

Light is my heart since the day we were plighted. 

Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted ; 

The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, 

And the linnets are singing ‘ True lovers, don’t sever.’ ” 

“Well! here we are again!” says Mr. Butler, joy- 
fully. “ Needless to say ” (as a friend of mine would 
remark) Sophie is his companion. “ Here we are again, 
in public lamplight — together — with the eyes of Bally- 
Saggart, and Sir Fell, upon us, and not one word of 
reproach.” 

• Yes ! Isn’t it lovely? ” says Sophie, enthusiastically. 
“ I suppose it is the first time for months that we have 
been alloiced to be together. But Sir Fell, thank good- 
ness, would be too afraid of Lady Saggartmore to make a 
row 

“ Still — I’m afraid you will have a bad time to-morrow,” 
says her lover regretfully. 

“ To-morrow is a long way off,” says Sophie (though, 
indeed, “to-morrow” is already with her). 

As she speaks, she looks round her on the silent sleep- 
ing garden, lit only by the stars in the Heaven above her. 
She and Denis have wandered out from the dancing-room 
after their last waltz, to stroll through the cool shrub- 
beries and enjoy the sweetness of this perfect night. “ I 
wish it were even a longer way off,” says she. “ ‘ N'ow ’ is 
so sweet,” with a delightful look at him. 

“ What a darling you are, Sophie ! ” says he. 

“ Not a bit a greater darling than you are,” returns 
she, after which joy reigns for quite a considerable timQ, 


Non A CBEINA, 


183 


“For all that,” says he presently, harking back to his 
first thought, “ I can’t bear to think of how disagreeable 
he may be to you to-morrow, on account of our dancing 
so much together to-night, perhaps. You tell me Miss 
Baxter — Lady Fell, I mean — is inclined to be friendly 
towards you, will she help you here, do you think ? ” 

“ I’m afraid not ; she is so very much against Cyril 
Ferris.” 

“ Oh ! he ! But she can’t compare me with Ferris ! I 
don’t believe in that fellow somehow. If he is in love 
with IS'ora, why doesn’t he do the correct thing? Why 
doesn’t he ask her to marry him ? ” 

“ But he” — eagerly — “ Oh, Denis ! I cai^t tell you any- 
thing; I’m bound in honor to Kolly to say nothing; but 
as to his proposing to her — well — I — I know something, 
but it is a dead secret.” 

“I’ll respect it,” says Mr. Butler solemnly. “I sha’n’t 
seek to probe it. Far be it from me to tear the confi- 
dences of one sister out of the heart of another. And so 
Ferris did propose to Nora? Well, I confess I never 
gave him credit for so much.” 

“ But, Denis, I haven’t said anything. I haven’t told 
you.” 

“No. No, Sophie. Wild horses, I am quite aware, 
would not drag a word from you on that subject. But if 
he has asked her to marry him, why is it to be so sacred 
a secret ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” says Sophie sadly, forgetting all things 
in her anxiety for her sister. “Because neither of them 
has any money, I suppose.” X 

“ Fiddlesticks ! ” says Butler brusquely. “ There isn’t 
a penny between us either, but I know I’m jolly proud to 
think that you love me. By-the-way, you know I go up 
to Dublin next month, and I think there is a prospect of 
my getting a brief or two.” 

“ Ab ! ” says Sophie, with most unflattering surprise, 
but huge delight. 

“ Fact ! I’ll get on — you’ll see.” 

“I knovj you will ; and after a while I shall come in for 
my money, and ” 

“Oh! that’s along cry. We shan’t have to wait till 
then, I hope,” says he. 

“ No lua^tter how long we wait, we shall always be true 


184 


NOMA CMEINA, 


to each other,” says she cheerfully. ‘‘ I wish — T do wish 
darling Nolly was as happy as I am. But I don’t like 
Cyril. Did you notice how long it was before he asked 
her to dance?” 

‘‘ Perhaps he had duty dances to do for Lady Saggart- 
more.” 

‘‘Mrs. Yancourt” — scornfully — “would hardly come 
under the head of a duty dance. She is looking so pretty 
to-night, and how exquisitely dressed.” 

“Is she? I have only time to look at one person’s 
dress, and that is all that it should be. I say, Sophie, I’m 
getting quite fond of my stepmother-in-law. She seems 
a real good sort after all.” 

“ She likes Nora better than me,” says Sophie thought- 
fully. Then, “Yes! she is good. I love her!” 

“ Heavens ! ” says Butler. “ Fancy loving a step- 
mother ; and onhj because she loves somebody better 
than you ! If you go on like this, Sophie, you’ll end by 
being canonized.” 

“ Well, there aren’t very many people to love,” says 
Sophie. “I have only you and Nora. Fancy, only two 
people in all the world ? Of course, when I say I love 
Miranda 

“ Has it come to ‘ Miranda ’ ? ” 

“ Naturally! She isn’t more than forty, after all.” 

“Young. Quite young,” says Butler. “A perfect 
infant. ‘ Miranda ’ — as you say ” 

“ As I was going to say, if I had not been interrupted,” 
says Sophie, severely. “When I said that I loved 
Miranda, I meant, of course, that I lihed her. One can’t 
love a person all in a minute.” 

“ Can’t one ? ” asks Mr. Butler, with very distinct em- 
phasis. 

“Oh! you know what I mean. One must know and 
iinderstcmd a person ” 

“And a person must know and understand ‘ one. ’ ” 

Unfortunately his tone, which is innocence itself, 
offends her. Sometimes, as it seems, it is not well “ to 
know and understand a person.” 

“Of course, you can make game of it all, if you like,” 
sayS' she, ominous lines showing themselves round her 
pretty soft lips. “ But what I mean is, that it takes time 
to create r^al love in one’s heart.” 


NORA CREINA, 185 

“ It didn’t take me five minutes,” says Butler, reproach- 
fully. 

“ I wish you would be serious,” says she, bringing her 
brows to as near an approach at a frown as they are ever 
likely to know. ‘‘ The very fitness of things would show 
you that time is required to mellow one’s ” 

“ There is no fitness in Nature,” interrupts he. “ Even 
one’s two eyes don’t agree, and we all know that one’s 
nose is not to be depended on. It is placed always too 
much to one side or the other. I don’t believe in pure 
‘ fitness.’ ” 

‘‘ Perhaps you don’t believe in anything,” says she. 

“ I believe in you.” 

“In me,” disdainfully. “You love laughter only in 
my opinion. You want to make your horrid jokes all day 
long. Denis,” standing, back from him, and addressing 
him with an air that is almost tragical, “ do you love 
me ? ” 

“ Love you ! ” To her astonishment and indignation— 
for she is not in the humor for light love-makings of 
any kind — he catches her in his arms, and gives her what 
the children call a bear’s hug. “ Thou of my thou ! ” 
says he. 

“That will do ! ” cries she angrily, shaking herself free. 
“You make a jest of everything. Of even this sacred 
subject.” Her tone is very properly aggrieved, and she 
wards off his further advances with much spirit. 

“ This is unkind,” says he. “ What have I said ? What 
have I insinuated ? Merely that you are my sole and 
only love ! ” 

“Well, I’m says Sophie, with decision. 

“ Then name the other,” says he, throwing out his 
hands as if in appeal to the world. 

“ I know nothing of ‘the other.’ You are welcome to 
her,” says Sophie, furiously. “ But I am your love no 
longer.” 

“ My dear girl, it isn’t in your power to say that — with 
any efect, I mean. My love you are, my love you will 
remain. Nothing can prevent, or destroy, or overrule 
that delightful fact. ‘ My love,’ you are. That proud 
distinction belongs to you alone. When we are married, 
I shall have us introduced into drawing-rooms, not as , Mr. 
and Mrs. Butler,’ but as ‘ Denis Butler and Ms Love ! ” 


186 


NOB A CBEINA. 


“ When we are married ! ” with great scorn. 

“Well — of course! It couldn’t be done before! Not 
at any price. It wouldn’t be respectable. My dear child, 
you should consider ! But afterwards I think it will be 
rather c^^c, eh ? Quite a new departure ! An innovation ! 
And a compliment to you too, which is everything. 
Shouldn’t wonder if all the society papers took it up and 
advocated it. Perhaps we ought to take out a patent be- 
forehand. What do you think, eh ? ” 

“ I don’t think at all,” says Sophie, sternly. “ And if 
you have quite done talking nonsense, I think I should 
like to go back to the house and find my next partner.” 

“You can think about that, any way,” says Butler. 
“Well — come along, and we’ll find that scoundrel, and 
then I’ll have his blood.” As he speaks he catches Sophie’s 
hand and tucks it under his arm, and takes a step or two 
towards the house, that breathe of an impatience to see 
and deal summarily with his rival. 

Sophie, with some show of indignation, attempts to ex- 
tricate her hand — to no avail. 

“ Sophia,” says Mr. Butler, imitating Sir Fell to a 
nicety, “ do you mean to tell me, that your hand is not 
now in the position where you would have it ? ” 

Sophie makes a last struggle — with her laughter this 
time — and finally gives way to it. 

“Any way. I’m going in,” says she, as a last concession 
to her dignity. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

“ But that wave looks dreariest after the storm, 
When the wrecks of young hopes its dark bosom deform : 

And the heart, like a lone bark, floats mournfully on. 
While the comrades it sailed with are shattered and gone.” 

“ It really seems a pity that woman hasn’t got some 
decent friend to put a cloak round her.” 

Mrs. Brush, with her eye-glass in full use, is staring at 
Mrs. Yancourt through it, just as Sophie and Denis come 
to a standstill near her. Eusebius, who is too lazy to 
dance much, is also looking on in this quiet recess, just 
inside the curtains, at the pageant before him. It seems 
to be a favorite resting-place for the dancers, because now 


NOBA CBEINA, 


187 


pretty Mrs. Moore and her partner, Peter Kinsella, the 
junior, come to a stand close to Mrs. Brush, who evinces 
open annoyance at their proximity, much to pretty Mrs. 
Moore’s delight. She was born in Tipperary — and to be 
born there^ means that one is always “ spoiling for a 
fight,” as the saying goes in Ireland. 

‘‘ Oh ! no ! ” cries Mrs. Moore, who is looking both 
piquant and charming in a dazzling gown of gold and 
brown, commingled. DonH call for a cloak, Mrs. Brush. 
It would be sacrilege ! As I have told you before, Mrs. 
Vancourt’s gowns are dreams — veritable dreams,” throw- 
ing up her exquisitely gloved hands. 

“ And as 1 have said before,” says Mrs. Brush, grimly, 
“ you^ of course, will support her.” 

“ To the extent of saying that she has a pretty taste,” 
says Mrs. Moore, smiling. “ Not only in her toilettes, 
but,” with a saucy grimace — “ in her lovers ! ” 

“I suppose you are alluding to Cyril Ferris,” says Mrs. 
Brush. “ If you call her regard for that young fool good 
taste, I don’t. However, I don’t want to discuss her, and 
her young men, with any one. I was alluding to herself 
alone — and tuckers,” severely, and with condemnation — 
‘‘ are cheap.” 

“Very cheap!” says Mrs. Moore, feelingly. “That’s 
what ails ’em ! That’s why the best of us won’t wear 
’em. What’s the good of anything that doesn’t cost 
money? Now I ordered one — from my woman — but, 
really, it seems superfluous.” 

“ I quite agree with you,” says Mrs. Brush, with a 
withering glance at her. “ Pity, when you did order it, 
you didn’t explain that it was meant to be seen ! ” 

“ How neat ! ” says Mrs. Moore, with a return wither- 
ing glance at her. “ Would you like me to put an adver- 
tisement in the papers next time ? How shall I put it ? 
" Mrs. Brush, and members of the stiff-necked generation, 

request that the members of the ’ ” 

“ Don’t hesitate,” says Mrs. Brush. “ ‘ Low-necked ’ 
generation will describe it perfectly. You — being the 
President of that precious new society — can show up the 
whole thing! Explain it all.” 

“ Not to you, evidently,” says Mrs. Moore. “ You 
seem to know more about it than I do.” 

“ I know more about most people than probably you 


188 


mnA cnjEiNA. 


imagine,” says Mrs. Brush, whose voice is like an east 
wind. Her words convey a threatening. Mrs. Moore 
hearing it, laughs out loud. 

“ How funny you are ! ” says she. Whereon Mrs. 
Brush, black with rage, looks over her head and decides 
upon ignoring her for the rest of the evening. Plainly a 
dangerous young woman. 

“ Look at Mrs. Burke ! ” says Mrs. Moore, presently, 
pointing to a stout matron dressed in a gown that would 
have suited a slim maiden of sixteen. “ What a guy ! 
She thinks she is still in her ’teens ; and yet I remember 
hearing of her through my mother. She must be sixty, 
if a day.” 

‘‘Don’t be censorious,” says Eusebius. “I, like your 
mother, remember her well in her palmy days, and I can 
assure you that even now ” 

‘ She’d pass very well for forty-five — 

In the dusk, with the light behind her.” 

“ Oh ! that’s severe, if you like ! ” says Mrs. Moore. 

“ If she does look old, who is to blame her ? ” says 
Mrs. Brush, addressing nobody in particular, and taking 
care to look well over Mrs. Moore’s head. “ Tom Burke 
is a disgrace to society ! He does nothing but drink 
brandy, I’m told, from morning till night — and from night 
till morning.” 

“ What a good thing for her,” says Mrs. Moore, frivol- 
ously. “ He’s bound to die soon, isn’t he? ” 

“ Why ? ” asks Eusebius, calmly. “ That sort of thing 
doesn’t always come off.” 

“ It’s bound to, sooner or later,” says Denis ; “ and Tom 
Burke would certainly be no loss. Any fellow who 
drinks as hard as he does, must drop off after a bit.” 

“ Do you think that ? ” says Eusebius. 

“ How can you dispute it, Eusebius ? ” exclaims his 
mother, indignantly. “ Have you a case in point ? Can 
you prove that drink is not destruction?” 

“ I think so,” says Eusebius. “ I once knew a person 
who, for twelve long months, lived on drink alone — never 
tasted solid food. Not a morsel. What d’ye think of 
that — eh ? ” 

“ Name your subject,” says his mother, in a voice of 
thunder. 

“ Would not that be betraying confidence?” demands 


JSfOUA CBMNA. 


189 


Eusebius. He addresses her with quite a timid air. “ To 

give a name to a thing You all know how one draws 

back from that ; but if you order me to speak,” looking 
at his mother — “I I)o you order me ?” 

“ Certainly I do,” sharply. 

‘‘ Well — it was a baby ! ” says Eusebius. “ A most de- 
praved baby. I believe the quantity of milk it drank 
during those twelve months, was — 

“ Eusebius ! ” says his mother, “be silent ! To jest on 
such subjects is to be immoral yourself.” 

A silence, fraught with mirth subdued, ensues. 

“Good gracious !” says Mrs. Moore presently— “how 
that Mr. Ferris does play up to that little heiress woman.” 
She nods her small head towards where Ferris and Mrs. 
Vancourt are standing, in the interval of the dance, near 
the opposite wall. “1 quite thought he was in love with 
that pretty Miss Carew.” 

Sophie, who is standing behind her, out of her view, 
starts violently. 

“He seems to fancy skeletons,” says Mrs. Brush, with 
a sneer ; “neither Nora nor that naked little woman over 
there, have an inch of flesh between them.” 

“ Come away, Sophie,” says Butler, suddenly. “ Let us 
finish this dance. Time is fiying, and the music is so 
good ” 

“ No, not yet. Not for a moment,” says Sophie breath- 
lessly, whose eyes are fixed on Mrs. Moore, who, to do her 
justice, Avould have said nothing had she known she was 
giving real pain to any one. 

“ You was speakin’ of Mrs. Vancourt ? ” says Peter Kin- 
sella. “ She’s charmin’, very charmin’, ye know.” 

“ Evidently Mr. Ferris thinks so. He is distinctly 
e7itete about her,” says Mrs. Moore. “ Never takes his 
eyes off her.” 

“Yes, as you say, engteetee — engteetee,” says Peter, 
delighted to air his French, which is indeed unique. 
“ Charming language, French, eh ? So expressive — full of 
sweet sayin’s, eh?” 

“ Full ! ” says Mrs. Moore, laughing. “ But I think Mr. 
Ferris’ fancy for your ” (saucily) “ charmin’ one lies more in 
his admiration for the beaux yeux de sa casette than for her 
beaux yeux au natureL Come, there’s plenty of your 
beloved French for you. You can see for yourself how 


190 


NOUA CBEINA, 


he looks,” intimating Ferris again with a little wave of 
her fan. Like a first-class undertaker, eh ? ” 

“ Evidently Mrs. Yancourt thinks so too,” says Eusebius. 
“ See she is giving him his congeP 

“ Only because she must,” says Mrs. Moore. “ She is 
evidently engaged to the man who has just come up to 
her. Major Andover, isn’t it? I expect he won’t have a 
good time. I can tell you she’s nuts on Cyril Ferris, and 
if he doesn’t want to marry her, he’ll have times before 
him.” 

a Ferris will always want to marry her. She has 
money,” says Eusebius, turning away. 

Here somebody, going by, breathes the magic word 
“ Supper,” whereupon Mrs. Moore slips her hand through 
Peter Kinsella’s arm again. 

“ Time for it ! ” says she. “ Good heavens, let us make 
haste. I’m starving.” 

“ So ’m I,” says Peter, with his best air. “ Starvin’, ye 
know, perfectly starvin’.” 

The little coterie breaks up, and Sophie turns a very 
pale face to Denis. 

“ Is it true — is it all true ? ” asks she in a dull way. 

‘‘ Nothing is all true,” says he vehemently. ‘‘ What 
vile gossips they are. Don’t believe them Sophie — don’t 
make yourself miserable. Though ” 

He hesitates. 

“ Go on,” says she. 

‘‘ If all they said were true, I think Nora would have a 
great escape, says he,” his eyes on the ground. 

‘‘Why don’t you take that child in to supper?” says 
Eusebius, coming up again. He had meant his words to 
be repeated to Nora, but has been made miserable by 
Sophie’s face. He speaks in a rough, quick way to 
disguise his feeling. It has occurred to him that a glass 
of champagne would do her good. 

“Yes, come, Sophie,” says Denis. 


'CliElJsrA, 


191 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

“ Roses for an hour of love. 

With the joy and pain thereof, 

Stand my lilies white to see, 

All for prayer and purity.” 

Indeed everbody seems to have come in to supper except 
the very young people — the hopelessly in love, and a few 
enthusiastic dancers of both sexes. Mrs. Yancourt has 
been led off to her ‘‘ chicken and champagne” by a stout old 
lord, a widower, who has always evinced an interest in 
her, and whom she once thought might be brought over a 
captive to her bow and spear. But Lord Brackenmore 
had held back for so long, had proved so .shy, had indeed, 
in spite of his sixty odd years, coquetted so gaily with his 
chances with her, that perforce she had given him up as a 
bad job. 

However, to go to supper with a real live lord is always 
delightful to some people, and Eldon Yancourt, having 
had very little to do with lords all her lifetime, is one of 
those people ; she sails away on his arm, with her lips 
arrayed in radiant smiles, and her prettiest words upon 
them. 

It is at this moment — at this moment, when he sees 
Eldon safely out of sight, that Ferris approaches Xora. 

He had been careful about the number of his dance. 
He had taken care that Xora’s card should be pretty well 
filled before he asked her for a dance. And even if his 
private arrangements with regard to her had fallen 
through, he should still have to manage that his first 
dance with her should be during supper time. 

Afterwards ! well the Saggartmore party always left 
early, directly after supper indeed, and then — then he 
could dance with her whom his soul loveth, so far as that 
narrow soul could love. 

‘‘At last!” says he, going up to her. Carnegie has 
just come up to her too, to beg her to come in to supper 
with him. 

“You must be tired,” says he. It is no careless 
remark. 

Nora has been in great request all the evening, she could 


192 


NOllA CREINA. 


have had three partners for every dance ; her night has 
been a veritable triumph in one way, yet her young heart 
lies heavy within her. 

“If you are too tired,” begins Ferris. He cannot 
take her into the supper-room. To take her in there 
under the eyes of the jealous, violent Eldon, is to kill all 
the careful management of the evening. lie fixes his eyes 
on Nora. For well he knows how he can influence her. 

“I am not tired,” says Nora, smiling at Carnegie. 
“ I should like to dance this waltz, I think, and I have 
promised it to Mr. Ferris.” 

“Well then,” says Carnegie kindly. “Only don’t 
overdo it. I hope your partner,” with a courteous glance 
at Ferris, “will see that you have something later on.” 

“ I shall take care of her,” says Ferris, in a tone that is 
Greek to Carnegie, who suspects nothing, and ambrosia 
to Nora, who still believes in him. “ Come ! ” He looks 
at her and she folloAvs him, laying her hand upon his 
arm, with a soft, slow, gracious backward glance at 
Carnegie. 

“If you are too tired to dance, we can come out into 
the garden,” says Ferris, without looking at his comjpan- 
ion. 

“Yes, I am tired.” Nora’s voice corroborates her 
words. 

Taking up a shawl that lies on one of the chairs in the 
conservatory through which they pass, Ferris would have 
placed it round the delicate shoulders of his* companion, 
l3ut Nora, in the gentlest way, refuses it. It is a fantas- 
tically beautiful little shawl belonging to Mrs. Vancourt. 

“ No, no,” says Nora, smiling. “ I want the air : io feel 
it. I am stifling.” 

She moves past him, and through the glass doorway 
into the cool, sweet, dark outside. 

It is close on the border that divides day from night, 
but still night reigns. The sky, 

“ Thick strewn with silver stars.” 

is gleaming, its crescent moon strewing the earth with 
gleams. All round them, as they go down the pathways 
towards the garden, the perfume of flowers goes with 
them, the whole lovely world around them, indeed, seems 
“on fire with roses.” Far away one gan hear the sound 


Mora creinA. 198 

of the rushing river, hurrying, hurrying always, to the 
sea. 

There is such a silence ! It seems to beat upon one’s 
heart. It beats upon Nora’s, as though it means to kill her. 
Will he never speak ? Never ! Never ! The sound other 
own light footsteps seems so loud in this strange calm of 
night, that it terrifies her. How stilli\ie darkness is ! Oh ! 
he must speak soon. He will explain, take away all her 
doubts, her misery. 

She is right, he speaks almost at once. 

“Well, I suppose you are going to marry him?” 

“ Marry ! ” she stops dead short upon the gravelled 

walk, and stares at him through the silvery light. Her 
heart has almost ceased to beat, involuntarily she lays 
one hand upon her breast. “ Marry ? ” she says again 
faintly. 

“ Yes. You know who I mean. Carnegie.” A sense 
of shame touches him, as he sees her gazing at him vdth 
something that is almost terror in her beautiful eyes. The 
meanness that has led him to get out of his own falseness, 
by throwing an imputation of falseness upon her, grows 
suddenly clear to him. Surely the light from those pure, 
honest eyes have shed that light that shows him how 
he stands ; gradually — very gradually — her expression 
changes, a touch of disdain betrays itself. Ferris seeing 
it, and seeing himself in it condemned, grows angry. 

“You cannot deny, at all events, that he is in love with 
you.” 

“ I am not here to deny anything,” says she in a low 
tone. 

“ What do you mean by that ? ” 

“ What I have said, Cyril, no more.” 

“ You acknowledge he is in love with you then. He has 

probably told you so. And you have listened ” He 

pauses as if for a reply, but none comes. She is still 
looking at him as if wondering, but he reads her expression 
wrongly. A sudden fear seizes upon him. 

Of late he has told himself that his secret engagement 
with Nora must have an early end. It had seemed a 
simple thing to him to break with her, to part from her, to 
walk in this path whilst she walked in tJiat. But now, now’ 
— when it seems to him possible that she herself has so 
arranged it, a very rage of desire for her possesses him, 

13 


194 


noha cbeina. 


To let her go to another ! And that she should be wishing 
to go ! That is where the sting is keenest ! 

“ You have said ‘ yes ’ to him ! ” says he, fiercely. 

“ ‘ Yes,’ to him ! You ask me that ? ” 

“Don’t prevaricate! ” says he, furiously. “You have 
said ‘ yes ’ ? ” 

“ Certainly not ! ” with a frown. 

“Yet you have danced half the night with him.” 

“Probably for that very reason,” bitterly. 

“Because ? ” 

“ I have not said ‘ yes ’ to him.” 

The reproach is to the point. She has said “ yes ” to 
the man before her, and yet, this is her first dance with 
him. Ferris’ color changes. He looks away from her, 
yet to look away is not to lose sight of her beauty — never 
so beautiful as now, when the charming frock, given to 
her by her step-mother, permits her to look as lovely as 
she really is. Memory is sight, and though he is gazing 
idly into a rose bush close at hand, he sees nothing but 
Nora — her rex:)roachful eyes, her sad little mouth, the 
exquisite lines of her childish figure. 

He turns suddenly to her. 

“You are teaching yourself to hate me,” says he, with 
a burst of passion. “ Soon you will succeed. And, perhaps, 
it will be better so. But, to-night, Nora — you wrong me 
to-night ! You think I did not care to dance with you. 
You do think that, though you must be mad to think it. 
I tell you, my every thought was yours all this accursed 
evening, and that every time you danced with Carnegie it 
was as though you had struck me.” 

As is usual with him, for the moment^ he is in earnest, 
and his earnestness goes to her heart — a heart only too 
ready to receive, to accept his excuses, to believe in him, to 
worship him again; vet pride holds her back from a swift 
surrender. 

“ If that is so,” says she coldly, though her voice is 
trembling, and she is now afraid to let her eyes meet 
his, “why did you not claim some of Mr. Carnegie’s 
dances ? ” 

“You ask me that, with Sir Fell in the room!” 

It is a vile way of exonerating himself, and he knows 
it, but now there is only one goal before him, to retrieve 
his position with her, to be loved again, as she has loved 


JSrOBA CBEINA. 


195 


him. The sweetness, the perfectness of her, has brought 
to life once more the old charm she had for him. Never, 
perhaps, has he loved her as keenly as in this hour, when 
for the first time it has occurred to him that he shall, 
after all, lose her. 

‘‘ Sir Fell was in the room with Sophie and Denis But- 
ler — yet Denis ” 

“Oh! I know — I know,” interrupts he impatiently. 
“ Butler — how does he seem to you ? Selfish ? Surely 
^he is selfish. To expose the girl he loves to Sir Fell’s 
anger to-morrow, for the sake of enjoying himself to- 
night, what is that but selfishness of the keenest sort ? 
Surely you must see it in that light. You must see that 
Butler has behaved abominably. That he has placed 
Sophie in a position that is positively cruel.” 

He pauses — waiting, longing for her reply. 

“ Denis is not selfish ! ” says she at last in a low tone. 

“Of course you defend him. You would defend any 
one but me. To me alone you refuse a generous word ! ” 

“ Is that fair ? ” says she. It is all she can say. 
Another word, and she knows that her bursting heart will 
give way, and tears — disgraceful — pour down her pale, 
thin little cheeks. Oh ! that it should come to this ! 
How little a time ago it seems since she had first seen him, 
liked him, loved him, with an absorbing love that now 
spells nothing but ruin to her heart’s content. 

“ Love on my heart from heaven fell, 

Soft as the dew on flowers of spring, 

Sweet as the hidden drops that swell 
Their honey-throated chalicing.” 

But now, now, noio^ where is his love ? Oh ! how many 
miles — how many long, long years behind her ! 

“Are you fair to says he. Then all at once the 

catch in his words takes him: “Oh, fair,” cries he.* 

“ Too fair ; you are the very life of me. Whatever 
comes, Nora, whatever in all our two lives happens 
either to separate or force us together, remember always 
that you are the one thing I have ever loved ! ” 

Nora covers her eyes with her hands as though to shut 
him out. She had told herself an hour ago that she 
would submit no longer to his half attentions. She 
would divide his love with no one. Yet now, the old fas- 
cination is strong upon her, and once again the well of 


196 


NORA CREINA. 


bubbling joy and delight, and happiness stirs her breast ! 
The “life-reviving fountains of Jouvence” are springing 
upwards in her bosom. 

lie makes a movement as if to take her hands in his, 
but still she holds back. 

“ If you could not dance with me,” says she, “ still, you 
need not have danced so much with Mrs. Yancourt ! ” 

“Mrs'. Yancourt!” returns he with a wonderful at- 
tempt at derision, but with so sickly a smile, that he is 
thankful tlie moon is, after all, but a poor sort of light 
beside an ordinary decent lamp. “ What has she got to do ^ 
with you and me?” 

“ Sometimes I have thought,” says Nora, crushing a 
rose beneath her nervous fingers — “sometimes I have 
fancied — that sheAa/6.s me. I cannot bear the expression 
ill her eyes when she looks at me. I,” pausing as though 
it is impossible to her to go on — “ I ” 

She stops again as though she cannot bring herself to 
say the words that are upon her lips. 

“ What have you fancied ? ” demands Ferris — with all 
the courage of one w'ho would know and deal with the 
worst. 

“ That she loves you — too ! ” 

The “too,” is pathetic. Ferris bursts out laughing. 

It is a strange laughter, wild, without mirth. 

“You laugh!” says she. 

“ At you / But ! ^Yhat a fancy ! ” He smiles at her, 
though his soul is writhing within him. “ Could she love 
any one, but herself ? ” 

“ Is that true ? ” says Nora quickly. “ Is that the way 
in which you think of her ? Cyril ! ” she leans towards 
him, and lays both her little, pretty hands upon his arms. 
Her gloves are long, but just above them the sweet soft 

fiesh of her arms shines. “ Cyril — tell me this You — 

you don’t care for her in any way, do you ? ” 

“ What a question ! ” says he, almost violently. 

“ Yet answer it. You — you dislike her more than other- 
wise ? ” 

“ I dislike her.” 

“ Ah ! ” A little low laugh breaks from her. A laugh 
that would make one cry — so full it is of late miseries 
and despairs, that must have crushed her heart to death 
She holds out her arms to him. “ Ah ! say it a gam ! ” 


NORA CREINA. 


107 


cries she. ‘‘It is true — it is true then. They are all 
wrong. You ’’—holding back her head to look at him, 
even whilst his arms are round her — “ you don^t want to 
marry her, do you ? ” 

“No! ” says he. He strains her to him, even though a 
last sense of dishonor stirs his soul. 

It is lie upon lie, and he knows it. His heart sickens 
within him. At this moment, holding her as he does to 
his breast, he almost resolves to throw up all his ambitions, 
to cast away from him the longings for the flesh-pots of 
Egypt that have all his life possessed him, and give him- 
self over to the love that might in time purify him. 

Almost ! Even as he holds her, even as her tender arms 
lie round his neck and her soft cheek is pressed against 
his own — reason, as he calls it, returns to him. 

He puts her a little from him, and whilst still with his 
hands clasping her, and her lovely eyes smiling into his, 
he recovers himself. 

“We must think, however,” says he. “We must con- 
sider.” 

He laughs — shaking her softly and making a little mirth 
out of it all. “ Two such paupers should be gay,” says 
he. “ It is all that is left them.” 

“ Oh ! no, there is love ! ” says Nora. “ I love you and 
you love me ! That is everything ! There is nothing 
left to desire ! ” 

Her tone rings so clear, so true — above all so trusting 
— ^that it strikes like a dagger to his heart. He resents 
the sudden pain — the sharp knowledge that if his soul 
were laid bare to her this second she could write him down 
a scoundrel. Ferris is so constituted that to think himself 
despised by any one is to be conscious of extreme discom- 
fort, of anguish almost, for the time being. His feelings 
are transitory. But for the time they agonize him. So 
keen they are now as she exposes him to himself as a 
mere falsehood, that he all but hates her for the sense of 
self-contempt she has so unknowingly driven into his 
breast. 

Like all his emotions, however, this too is short. His 
self-contempt dies away, and with it his anger towards 
her. She is too beautiful for anger to touch her closely. 
All hearts are open to beauty, except indeed, as in Nora’s 
case, the heart of a step-father. 


198 


NOEA CREINA, 


The sound of an approaching foot upon the gravel louses 
them both. He releases her partly ; letting her stand a 
little from him, yet still holding one of her hands. 

‘‘We cannot speak now — not now,” whispers he hur- 
riedly. “ But to-morrow, in the evening, you will meet 
me at the old place down by the bridge. Promise me, 
Nora.” 

“Yes. Yes. To-morrow. Who was that? Who went 
by?” 

“ It is so hard to see. Carnegie, I think.” 

“ He did not see us ? ” 

“ No. Are you” — suspiciously — “ afraid he should? ” 

“ Cyril ? ” says she, stopping short again. They are 
now on their way back to the house, and a standing bush 
of old-fashioned roses hides them from the common path. 
“ distrust me. It hurts me, that you should. I 

don’t distrust you ! I don’t, indeed. I love you, that is 
all.” 

That a soul so steeped in woiidliness, could seem fresh 
and true to any one, seems half impossible, yet to Nora — 
to this fresh young soul, void of duplicity and falsity of 
any kind — all things are possible. Cyril has told her he 
does not love Mrs. Yancourt — that he does love her. She 
desires no more, she is thoroughly content. 

“ Not a//,” says he, passionately. “ My love for you, 
that counts for something surely ! ” 

He throws his arms round her and kisses her. She re- 
turns his embrace tenderly. Are they not engaged ? Is 
she not all to him, and he to her ? Oh ! how she loves 
him! 

“ Without him nought soever is, 

Nor was before, nor e’er shall be, 

Nor any other joy than his 
Wish I for mine to comfort me.” 

Not only loves — but oh! how she believes in him! 

“ Come — come, we must go in,” says she. 


NOBA CBEINA. 


in9 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

“ Still was it thine to cope, 

M7'e a ruin^ 

Still against hope to hope, 

Eire a ruin^ 

Even through blackest woe, 

Fronting that tyrant foe, 

Whom thou shalt yet lay low, 

Eire a ruiny 

With a light and buoyant step, she runs up the stone 
stairs leading to the balcony, from which the ball-room 
may be gained more easily than if one were to approach 
it from the conservatory side. At the far end of the bal- 
cony she can see Mrs. Yancourt sitting, with Eusebius 
Brush beside her. Mrs. Yancourt sees her too, and 
rises slowly, gracefully. She says a few Avords to 
Eusebius, laughing as she says them. Nora can hear 
that gay, clear, metallic little laugh — whereupon Euse- 
bius, though with apparently a ted grace, disappears 
through the window into the dancing-room beyond. 

Mrs. Yancourt, after a swift glance in his direction, to 
see that he is safely off the premises, turns to Nora, and 
rustles towards her and Ferris — a most gracious little 
figure, in her exquisite gown of palest blue and gold. 

‘‘ You — dear Miss Carew ! ” cries she, in her soft treble, 
and with the most artless amazement. “ And you too, 
Cyril! I knew you, as you came up the steps. 

Oh, Cyril 1 ” with a light little confidential laugh, and 
laying her hand on his arm with a most proprietary 
air, ‘‘ do you remember what we were saying about the 
Moores? Well, it’s all true. I’ll tell you,” in a half 
whisper, and lifting her face very close to his ear, ‘‘ about 
it later on.” Her sharp, decisive, little manner, her little 
smirk — the half- whisper, all prove her so terribly half- 
bred, that Nora stares at her. Stares at her with a sink- 
ing heart, however. By what right does she lay her hand 
upon his arm — whisper to him — make little confidences ? 
Nora’s face grows very pale, the light dies out of her eyes, 
all the glad joyousness that had clothed her as with a gar- 
ment, as she ran up the steps just now, falls away from 


NOTtA CUEIXA. 


2l0 


her, yet she holds her young head high, and looks at 
her rival with a glance that has nothing in it of hatred 
or doubt or suspicion. It is a very proud glance. 

“ What a delightful evening,” says Mrs. Vancourt,' 
turning to her. Ferris has been a little irresponsive over 
the confidences, and now the thing that Mrs. Yancourt 
calls her heart is full of rage towards the calm girl who 
is looking back at her, with no rage at all in her heart, 
but only agrowing despair. “ But warm, so warm! No 
wonder you went into the garden.” 

“ It was warm, even there,” says Nora quietly, coldly. 

“No doubt,” with a quick glance at Ferris, that he 
catches, but that goes by Nora without understanding; 
“ you do look warm.” 

“ Do I ?” says Nora, putting up her pretty hands to her 
cheeks (which, indeed, are as white as snow now, though 
when she ran up those steps they were glowing with love 
and life). “Oh, I am sorry ! ” 

“ Yes, to be flushed is to be untidy,” says Mrs. Yan- 
court, friendlily. “ And your hair. May I put up your 
hair. It is a little — just a little rough. They will say,” 
lightly, “ that you and Cyril have been running a race.” 

“ Well, we haven’t,” says Nora, something in the other’s 
tone offending her. “No, don’t touch my hair, please — 
I,” running her own Angers quickly over it, “ think it is 
all right. Is it all right ? ” turning suddenly to Ferris, 
“ Is it rough ? ” 

She appeals to him. Her whole life seems to depend 
upon his answer. Upon the answer to this most trivial 
question. And in truth it does so hang. She is trembling, 
poor child, and all the light of her love for him, her belief 
in him, her dependence upon him, is shining through her 
uplifted eyes. Oh, if only he would uphold Tier judgment, 
and so fling Mrs. Yancourt from the pedestal on which 
she has placed herself ! Even now she will not acknowl- 
edge that Ferris might have placed her there! This 
woman — who she instinctively feels hates her — who is 
bent on doing her as bad a turn as she can. 

She is looking at Ferris, what will he say ? 

“Well,” says he, at last, smiling with a terrible deter- 
mination, but smiling successfully for all that, “you must 
forgive me. Miss Carew, but perhaps it is a little rough.” 
—He pauses ! To his dying day he never forgets the look 


NOUA CREINA, 


in the poor child’s eyes as he thus denies her. “Rough 
— but charming,” says he. 

“Oh, yes, so charming,” says Mrs. Vancourt, jubilantly. 
“The most beautiful hair in the world. I have always 
said that. But have you been dancing much ? I think 
so. I saw you,” with pretty meaning, “ dancing a good 
deal with somebody ! Somebody whose name begins with 
C.” 

Nora makes a faint gesture. She feels stunned — half 
dead — yet through all the numbness that is killing her 
young heart, a sort of horror of the pretty little creature 
before her — of her vulgarity — her cruelty — rises and op- 
presses her. 

“Yes. It has been a delightful night,” goes on Mrs. 
Yancourt gaily. “ I can’t think where Lady Saggartmore 
got all the men. So difficult in country places to get a 
man at all ! ” 

“ There are several regiments stationed in Cork now,” 
says Nora, quietly, though when she speaks her voice 
sounds so far away, so strange, that involuntarily she 
glances at Ferris to know if he has noticed the terrible 
change in it. He is looking away from her, however. 

“Ah ! true. But yet it is not always easy to persuade 
them to come down — to a dance, 1 mean.* Now, if it were 
to kill a few partridges, they’d come at once. Men are 
cruel — don’t you think so. Miss Carew ? ” 

“ I have always found them kind,” says Nora smiling, 
whose hands are clasped so closely together, through 
anguish of spirit, that the nails in them are making 
marks in the pretty flesh beneath them. 

“Ah, you would — of course!” says Mrs. Yancourt — 
her smile now is a little vicious, the girl’s answer has 
enraged her. Does the little silly fool think that she — 
she has not found men kind also ? “ You — may I whisper 
it to you ? — you are so lovely that all men must be at your 
feet. You can marry where you please. The man of 
your choice is for you alone. I do envy girls like you 
— but, of course, poor old married people like me, cannot 
hope to cope with girls. However, we were talking of 
cruelty, were we not ? Men, Miss Carew,” with a swift, 
sweet glance at Ferris, that betrays a great many things, 
but above all other things a thorough understanding with 
him, “are impossible creatures. One may think one 


202 


NOB A CBEINA. 


knows them, and all at once — pouf,” with an airy wave of 
her fan, “ one finds they are out of one’s mental reach 
altogether.” She looks at Ferris, and shakes a fan at 
him. “ Come now, Cyril, deny all that if you can.” 

There is an unmistakable air about her of being on 
excellent terms with him. She has challenged Ferris 
directly this time, and he gives her back an answer of 
some sort. 

“Yes. We are all devils,” says he, smiling. It is a 
very sickly smile. 

“ Oh, no, you must not use ‘ cuss words,’ ” says little 
Mrs. Vancourt, laughing. “ And even if you do slaughter 
little birds, still, I suppose there will be always some one 
to condone your offence. I, for one. Will you believe it. 
Miss Carew? I have actually preserves on my own 
grounds, Avhere wicked keepers look after the poor par- 
tridges and grouse and pheasants, and make them fat for 
the guns of their enemies. I have often protested against 
it, but Parkins, my head-keeper, says it must be done. 
He gives me to understand that if gentlemen can’t be 
amused they will go to the bad, and ” 

She stops and laughs, and looks at Ferris. His deter- 
mined silence is maddening her. He sees this, and forces 
himself to say something. 

“ That is not fair,” says he, making his dull remark 
wdth as bright an air as he can. 

“ Fair ! There is nothing fair in the whole wide world,” 
says she — as gaily as possible. “ And you will be unfair 
to the partridges next month ! Do you know, Miss Carew, 
Mr. Ferris has promised to come to me — to my place in 
Shropshire — next month — to help me to entertain my 
guests, and to kill my birds— birds ! — I detest cruelty 
of any sort — don’t you ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t think you do,” says Nora, shaking her 
head — and speaking quite as one would who had no 
arriere pensee of any sort. “You see you loill let your 

birds be killed; you ” She breafe off — a terrible 

choking in her throat strangles her next words ; she 
gazes a little wildly round her, but Ferris is looking away 
— over the balcony down into the sleeping garden, and 
plainly, thank Heaven! Mrs. Vancourt has felt no special 
meaning in that sudden break. 

“ Oh ! yes — I seem unkind — but we English people take 


^rOBA CBBIMA, 


203 


our birds so lightly. And men must shoot something. 
Cyril is coming to shoot my place — aren’t you, Cyril?” 

“ Thanks,” says Cyril ; his tone is not suffused with 

joy* 

“ So (/ood of him to come,” says Mrs. Yancourt, address- 
ing Nora, and looking at her indeed, through the dull, 
uncertain light, with a fixed and malignant scrutiny — 
“ when he has so many engagements. But he has can- 
celled them all for 77ie. Don’t you think it SAveet of him : 
Zdo.” 

“Oh, no!” says Nora — calmly, distinctly, yet with a 
terrible effort — for her heart is beating almost to suffoca- 
tion. She is remembering all he had said to her just now 
in the deAvy garden. How he had derided her idea that 
he cared for Mrs. Yancourt — for any one in all the SAveet, 
Avide, happy Avorld but her. Is there no truth anywhere 
— is all a lie ? “ All men like shooting ” 

She looks desperately round her. The desire to get 
away — from him, from her — is becoming a passion. She 
looks through the open AvindoAA^s of the ball-room, and 
sees Carnegie. Ah ! he Avill help her. 


CHAPTER XXXYI. 

“ O, thou blooming, milk-white dove, 

To whom I’ve given true love. 

Do not, ever thus reprove My constancy.” 

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

“ O ! my Nora Creina, dear I 
My own, my artless, Nora Creina.” 

He is not dancing. There is an expression on his face 
that gives her the idea that he is looking, watching, for 
somebody. He is supposed to be talking to Lady Bally- 
brig — ^but as she usually does all that sort of thing, his 
attempt at it comes to little. It seems to Nora that he 
is, indeed, hardly attending to her, though she is evi- 
dently very much amused herself at the story she is tell- 
ing him, so amused, indeed, that she fails to notice his in- 
attention. Who is he looking for ? Oh ! whoever it may 
be, he must — he must come and help her noAV ! 

Her eyes are fastened on him, Avith so eager, so earnest 


mnA cBEmA. 


i>:)4 


a gaze — a gaze so compelling, that it actually demands a 
return. As though he felt it — Carnegie turns slowly in 
her direction — like most people, he grows restive beneath 
the continued observance of any one — and presently sees 
her. 

She is standing just outside the open window — framed 
in by it — a perfect picture, in her white, beautiful gown, 
and that touch of despair — that passionate appeal in her 
eyes. A picture of despair, however ! 

Carnegie gives way to a little impulsive gesture. Is 
it Nora? or is it her wraith? Lady Bally brig is still 
rattling off her wonderful little hit of gossip, and takes no 
notice of him. But Carnegie hears nothing — he sees only 
Nora. The appeal in her eyes draws him to her. He 
murmurs some apologetic words, and Saggartmore, com- 
ing up to them providentially at this moment, he invents 
an excuse of some sort, and goes straight to the window 
opposite. 

‘‘ You want ” he is beginning, so far carried away 

by the fear that has been consuming him ever since those 
sad, sw^eet eyes have met his, that he has forgotten all 
things — conventionality, everything ; and besides he had 
believed her alone^ out there in the dark. It is almost a 
shock to him to see Ferris and Mrs. Vancourt behind her ! 
The light had not fallen upon them. 

He stops short, but Nora supplies the pause. 

“ Our dance, I think,” says she. 

It is not ; but Carnegie, answering the imploring look 
in her eyes, says instantly : 

“ Ours indeed ! ” He draws her hand through his arm, 
and leads her into the ball-room. He can see that she gives 
no backward glance to either Ferris or Mrs. Yancourt. 
Hid she feel herself cle trap ? He had hetol that Ferris 
was going to marry Mrs. Yancourt. But that could 
hardly have given cause for that sad, anguished look in 
her sweet eyes. 

Whatever the mystery may be, however — lie is the 
gainer by it. She has called to him — to him — to help her. 
Carnegie’s heart glows within him. 

Every one is dancing. An exquisite waltz is ringing 
through the room. 

“ Just to the door,” he says, passing his arm round her 
waist. She gives herself to him for the moment, but un- 


isroBA OEJsiJsrA, 


205 


willingly, as he feels, and as they reach the door that 
leads to the halls outside, he stops suddenly, still sup- 
porting her. 

‘‘ Come and sit down somewhere,” says he. 

“Yes, I should like to sit down,” says she ; she is look- 
ing at him, and suddenly her eyes grow brighter. “ How 
good you are to me,” says she. 

“ Oh ! good ! ” says he, with a careful laugh — though 
in truth his heart is heavy, yet without knowledge. He 
leads her to the library. It is empty, save for a very 
young couple, who rise tumultuously, and fly away before 
they have time to take their seats. 

“ Was that a lie? ” says Nora with an attempt at light- 
heartedness, as she sinks upon a lounge, and thanks 
Heaven that the lamps are very low. They are so low, 
indeed, that she regains a little of the courage that Nature 
has given her, and, leaning back against the amber satin 
of the curtains behind her, that contrast so charmingly 
with her nut-brown hair — she lets a soft smile widen her 
lips. 

She looks so small, so sweet and so desirable in every 
way, that Carnegie, gazing at her, forgets to answer. 

“ A lie, I am afraid,” continues she, smiling still. 
“ But you will forgive it. I — I wanted to get away. But 
now that I am away, do not waste your time with me, Mr. 
Carnegie, go and find your real partner. I shall be quite 
happy here.” 

“ Without me ? ” says Carnegie. 

His tone is a question, and, considering how he has 
helped her to her present emancipation, she feels that she 
owes him something. Yet, to be alone, to be able to run 
through the last hateful scene — to analyze it — to think. 
. . . What a hore this man is ! 

Yet courtesy and justice meeting in her breast compel 
the smile with which she answers him. 

“ Oh no. If you wish to stay — if you have no part- 
ner ” 

“ I have no partner, and I wish to stay,” says he. “ If 
I may ! ” 

“ Certaiflly you may.” She smiles at him very kindly, 
though her whole soul is sick with a fierce longing to be 
alone. Perhaps the strain she lays upon herself makes 
the smile too kind. It is so hard to regulate one’s feel- 
ings to the very exact inch. 


(JREINA. 


“ Thank you,” says Carnegie, gently. He is leaning 
forward, looking at her. He had always thought her the 
prettiest creature he had ever seen, but now, in her lovely 
gown so creamy -white, so soft, so rich, and with her 
folded hands lying in her lap, she seems to him a very 
dream of beauty. Her bright hair is piled up on her 
small head. Her eyes are downcast, the sad bistre shades 
lying under those sweet eyes, tell their own tale, but one 
he cannot read. No key is given him. She is always a 
little pensive — and those mournful shades only give her 
now an additional charm. Her little slight figure, child- 
like in its outlines, seems to him the dearest thing he has 
ever seen 

Suddenly a mad, wild longing to tell her what is in his 
heart ! — to tell her that he loves her — fills him. It is a 
madness he knows — she has never shown even a desire to 
meet him, to talk with him, to be friends with him, as the 
children say. She has held herself indeed a little aloof. 
It had been an experience with Carnegie, who has been all 
his life sought after, and flattered in many ways. Perhaps 
this very indifference on her part had enhanced her value 
in his eyes. Whatever the value he sets upon her, how- 
ever — it is undoubtedly a priceless one. To him, she is 
the one woman in the world, and yet he, who has had the 
world at his feet so far, despairs when he thinks of her. 

“ Thou didst delight my eyes: 

Yet who am I ? Nor first, 

Nor last, nor best, that durst 
Once dream of thee for prize; 

Nor this the only time 
Thou shalt set love to rhyme.” 

Now, as he moves, and leans still a little nearer to her, 
his desire comes to a growth. He tells himself that noth- 
ing wdll come of his declaration, that his love will be as 
nothing m her eyes. Still to tell her. 

“ Nora ! ” His voice has sunk to a mere whisper, but 
a penetrating one. “ Has it ever occurred to you that I 
— love you ? ” 

Nora’s eyes are uplifted now — she stares at him blankly 
for a moment. ^ 

“ No ! no ! ” cries she, hurriedly. She puts out her 
hands. “No, not another word. Not,” — wildly — “ 

Oh ! DorCt go on ! ” There is a mixture of despair, and 


NOBA cnm^A. 


m 


horror, and hatred in the expression that crosses her 
beautiful little face. A hatred of love it is ! Of love 
only — not of Carnegie, hut only of the pretty winged demon 
who has killed her young life — she so young, so sweet, to 
whom love should be as a lantern guiding her on her 
way, has found love dark as night. 

“ I shall not say another word,^’ says Carnegie earn- 
estly, ‘‘ if you so wish it ! ” Her manner has checked 
him — shocked him. “ At least not now. But, I shall ask 
you, Nora, to remember what I have said. To remember 
that I love you. And if, as I hope you are — heart-whole, 
I ” 

She puts up her hand suddenly, just as if to check 
him, and then to her throat as if to stop the little sharp 
cry to which she is longing to give birth. 

Her tender conscience is at work. She has known for 
a long time that Carnegie loves her, and to let him now 
declare himself is terrible to her. To her, whose thoughts 
are all filled with the image of another — another — who — 
who has no thought for her. 

She lowers her hand and clenches it. A very rage of 
misery darkens her poor eyes. Oh ! what has she done 
to Heaven that it should now prove so unkind ! 

But she ought to tell Mr. Carnegie. She ought indeed. 

He has told her that he believes her heart-whole, and 

But to confess to him — to confess what ? Her love for a 
man who 

The hands clench each other even more sharply — the 
stab as of a sharp knife runs through her heart. To love, 
where one is not loved ! Oh ! no — it is impossible. And 
besides — she is not sure — Cyril — may love her in spite of 
all. To-morrow evening he will tell her. Oh ! — yes he 
will tell her that all this vague horrible doubting was 
a huge, a sad mistake, and that he does love her, even as 
she loves him. 

Her thoughts have run like lightning. Carnegie is con- 
scious of only a slight hesitation when she says to him : 

“It has nothing to do with it,” she says distinctly. 
Her voice frightens her — it sounds hoarse to herself, and 
all the lights seem blurred, but gazing at Carnegie through 
this imaginary gloom it seems to her that he sees noth- 
ing. This gives her courage. In truth Carnegie does 
see nothing but a beautiful child — sad, anxious — uncer- 
tain. 


208 


NOUA CIIEINA. 


“ What has nothing to do with it,” says he. ‘‘ It has 
everything to do with it. If you love no one else — why, 
there is still a chance for me. Nora — my Nora Creina! 
give me one word of hope ! ” 

‘‘ Oh ! not one — not one ! ” says she rising. She feels as 
though she were gasping for air. It is all so cruel ! The 
man she loves — does not — or — does he love her ? And this 
man, whom she cannot love, is telling her that she is all 
the world to him. Where is justice ? Where is peace to 
be found ? 

‘‘ Not one / ” says he. “ Nora ! think.” 

‘‘ If I thought forever,” says she, a little wildly, “ it 
would he all just the same.” 

“ But why ? Am I so repulsive to you ? ” 

There is such sorrow in his tone that it brings her back 
to her true self. 

“ Mr. Carnegie, don’t think that,” says she vehemently. 
“Kepulsive — No. I like you.” 

“ If so,” says he — he too is standing now, and as he 
speaks he takes her hands and presses them. ‘‘ If so, all 
may yet be well between us. Your step-father seems to 
think-^ ” 

‘‘ Sir Fell ! ” She drags her hands out of his, and moves 
away from him, looking at him with blanched cheeks and 
parted lips. “ You have not told him 

Carnegie pauses and grows pale. It is only an hour ago 
since he spoke to Sir Fell. It had seemed to him the 
direct, the honorable course to pursue. 

“ I he begins ; and then, seeing those large fright- 

ened eyes staring intoTiis, and that little child-like atti- 
tude, with the hands now pressed against the breast, his 
courage fails him.” “ How shall I tell you ? ” says he. 
“And yet I must tell you. I — I have spoken to him.” 

‘‘You ” she stops short as if it is impossible to her 

to go on. Her hands are still pressed against her bosom. 

“Yes. I spoke to him. I did not know you would re- 
sent it. I Nora ! Do not look at me like that. Do 

you think I would wilfully hurt you in any way. Do you 
think I would not die to save you one pang ? ” 

“ You spoke to him ? ” 

“Yes, yes. But what does it come to after all? You 
can refuse me ! As a fact you have refused me. You can 
explain it to him. He will understand.” 


NonA CBEmA. 


209 


“ You don’t know Sir Fell.” 

“ I don’t think you need be troubled in any way about 
it,” says he. “ If you do not care to explain it, I can. I ” 
— slowly and with a sharp touch of pain in the eyes he has 
fastened on her — “ I can withdraw my proposal.” 

‘‘ I said you did not know him,” interrupts she, with a 
quick, a most miserable little laugh. “ He will hold you 
to your proposal. He will compel me to accept it.” 

‘ He cannot hold me to anything,” says Carnegie, haugh- 
tily. 

“ No ? Then he will represent you to the county as a 
man devoid of honor — he ” 

“ It would be for you ! ” says Carnegie, calmly. “ And 
you would know how it was. There is no one else now 
that matters at all.” 

But I — I too can feel,” she says, growing deadly pale. 
“ I — rather than that you should so suffer on my account 

“ Pshaw ! ” says he, rather rudely. “ Do you think I 
should accept such a sacrifice from you ? ” 

“No. I suppose not.” She sighs. “ W ell, do this then,” 
says she. “Let things remain as they are for awhile. 
Perhaps — I shall be able to find my way out of it.” 

“ As you will.” His tone is very cold. “ But why 
annoy yourself about it? You can tell Sir Fell to-morrow 
morning that you have refused me — or — I can tell 
him.” 

“ Oh, no. Oh, doT^t ! ” says she. She is trembling now. 
“ Mr. Carnegie, I have been rude to you perhaps — I have 
not said the things that people ought to say when — when 
people ask them to marry them. But — forgive me that 
— and don’t, donUt tell Sir Fell I have refused you. He — 

will be so angry — he ” She breaks down, struggles 

with herself for a moment, and then bursts into tears. 

“ Nora. Nora, darling ! Good Heavens, Nora ! Don’t 
cry like that. What have I said! There is somebody 
coming. Here, come here behind the curtain, and out to 
the balcony. There now! Nora! look at me — and for- 
give me.” 

“ There is nothing to forgive,” says she. She is drying 
her eyes with her handkerchief, and now looks up at him 
with forlorn but lovely eyes. “You have been only too 
good to me. It is only that I am tired, nervous. I should 


210 NOUA mElNA. 

like to go home, I think. Will vou take me to Lady An- 
ketell?” 

“ Certainly,” but as she takes a step towards the win- 
dow, he suddenly follows her and lays a detaining hand 
upon her arm. ‘‘Will you answer me one thing?” says 
he with agitation, an agitation so great that he finds it 
impossible to repress it. It is at this moment, indeed, 
that a strange doubt has for the first time arisen in his 
mind. How it has come (or why) noio — or why not sooner, 
is one of those riddles that never can be answered. “ I re- 
member now,” says he, “ that you were with Ferris in the 
garden awhile since. I passed you. I saw you. You — 
he — he is not in love with you, is he ? ” 

“ Oh ! no — no — no ! ” cries she. Something like Death 
catches at her heart. (Does he love her ? ) Suddenly she 
bursts out laughing. 


CHAPTER XXXYIL 

“Aye ! bitter hate, or cold neglect, 

Or lukewarm love, at best. 

Is all we’ve found, or can expect.” 

. Mrs. Yancourt, left alone with Cyril, had turned to 
him. Her eyes are full of light, and something else too ! 
Ferris, seeing that “ something else,” feels his color grow 
a trifie paler. Has the whole thing come to an end ? 

His soul dies within him at the very thought. There 
had been moments when he had told himself he would feel 
thankful if an occasion should arise in Avhich she would 
cast him from her, yet now, when this occasion seems im- 
minent, he recoils from it. It would mean so -many 
things, the disappearance of the fiesh-pots of Egypt forever 
for one thing, and that — after all — the principal thing. 
Sometimes, when with Xora, lookmg at her, adjudging 
her sweetness — her truth — ^lier honor, at its proper worth, 
he had felt that love gained, though the world were lost, 
would be well. But come to the point, and Xora out of 
sight, he thinks otherwise. The young man’s soul does 
not rise to great heights, and at present it stands at a very 
low level. 

Mrs. Yancourt is still looking at him. There is some- 
thing about her protracted silence that suggests the idea 


NOE A CREINA. 


211 


that she has so much to say that she hardly knows where 
to begin. This delay, so far as she is concerned, is fatal 
—perhaps it saves Fepis. As she stands with her little 
slim body poised as it were for a spring, and her eyes 
darting poison, Eusebius Brush once again appears upon 
the scene. 

He stands just inside the half-opened window, leaning 
his arms on each lintel, and smiles blandly at Mrs. Yan- 
court. 

‘‘ Y ou told me to go,” says he. ‘‘ And I think you meant 
rne to stay away— But blame your own fascina- 
tions in that I have returned again. Come in and have 
some supper — your first attempt at it, I noticed — (you see 
how my thoughts have always fiown to you) — was vague 
indeed. There are some new things now on the table, 
that may tempt you. Come.” 

“I ” says Mrs. Yancourt. She had been evidently 

prepared to say a good deal — her eyes, except for a swift 
moment, had never left Ferris. “ I ” 

“ Ferris, Lady Saggartmore wants you,” says Eusebius, 
in his soft, heavy way. “ There is some trouble about the 
lamps in the morning-room. She said you could settle 
them.” 

“I know. It is that tall bronze affair. It never really 
gives any light,” says Ferris. He passes Eusebius quickly, 
and as he does so, lets a swift glance fall upon him, and 
there’s gratitude in it. 

^ “ Come in and eat something,” says Eusebius, cheerfully, 
giving Mrs. Yancourt his arm. ‘‘Even the most ethereal 
of creatures cannot live on nothing.” 

“ I am not the most ethereal of creatures,” says she sul- 
lenly. She accepts his arm, however, though with a dis- 
tinctly bad grace, and goes with him towards the supper 
room. 

“ Well, perhaps not the only ethereal one,” says Euse- 
bius. “ I must confess that you have a rival in that line.” 

“ A rival ? ” 

The words strike unpleasantly on her ear. She has 
not time to follow up this subject just now, however, as 
they have reached the supper room, entered it, and the 
salutations to the people they know as they pass them by, 
the little, pretty, unmeant things that are bound to pas^ 
from lip to lip, takes thenx all their tin^iQ, 


212 


NORA CREINA, 


Presently, however, having x^iloted her to the top of the 
table, where, as is usual, the crush is less, he asks her 
what she would like. 

‘‘ What a question,” says she. “ Is there ever a choice ? ” 

It is plain to Eusebius that she is in a bad tamper, and 
the cause of it is not far to seek. She had been taken 
away from Ferris just as she was about to reduce him to 
dust — and hi^ allegiance to her. Eusebius feels that he is 
the “ cause,” and rather rejoices in the knowledge than 
otherwise. It may spare Nora in some vague way. Ferris, 
so far as he is concerned, might be reduced to dust at 
any moment — the sooner the better, in fact — but Nora ! 

Nora likes him ! The more fool Nora! But that Nora 
does like Ferris has been an open secret to Eusebius for 
.a long time. And yet — so strange are these queer human 
hearts of ours — Eusebius dislikes even beyond Ferris the 
woman who would be instrumental in bringing destruc- 
tion upon Nora’s love-dream. Without liope of ever 
winning Nora himself, Eusebius still declares himself on 
her side, and, without clear knowledge of it, is an untir- 
ing enemy towards those who would make wreck of her 
young life. 

“ There are several, I think , says Eusebius, looking 
round. 

“ Not one ! ” says she insolently. ‘‘ Chicken and ham. 
Ham and chicken ! It is always the same. I expect,” 
with a contemptuous curve of her chin and a very vulgar 
little laugh, “ I’ve had about enough chicken and ham to 
last me tJiis side Jordan ! ” 

I hope you will get something better on the other 
side,” says Eusebius tenderly. “But you ought to give 
directions beforehand.” 

“ I daresay,” says she, frowning. 

That she detests Eusebius has been open to him for a 
long time, but it is never so clear to him as when at this 
instant she calls to Peter Kinsella, who is just passing by 
with a plate. 

“ Dear Mr. Kinsella, is that you ?” says Mrs. Vancourt, 
smiling her loveliest smile at Peter. “ What have you 
^ot there ? Something fit to eat ? Give it to me.” 

“I was just goin’ to serve a goddess ! ” says Peter, in 
his last-century tone. “ I had believed one goddess suffi- 
cient in our deginerate age, but now bore’s another, Mrs 


NOllA CREINA. 


213 


Vancourt, if I may lay this on your shrine,” depositing 
the plate he is carrying before her, “ I shall indeed he 
the envied of those who rest in Olympus ! ” 

‘‘Olympus?” says Mrs. Yancourt, whose education, it 
must be confessed, was in her youth limited. 

“Yes — yes. Heathen gods!” says Peter. “An’ I 
must apologize for mentionin’ ihem before you at all, 
Mrs. Yancourt, for their conduct was at times — well — 
lively ye know — lively ! ” 

“ Quite so! ” says Eusebius with a face as grave as the 
side of a house. 

“ An’ now what do you think of what I’ve brought ye ? ” 
asks Peter presently. The question is legalized, as Mrs. 
Yancourt, who has attacked the plate given her, is now 
silent over it — a splendid sign. 

“ It’s a dream ! ” says she. 

“ Oh ! so glad you like it,” says Peter, standing now on 
one leg, now on the other in the exuberance of his pride. 
“Would you believe that it was Z who suggested that 
‘ dream ’ to Lady Saggartmore ? It is a French concep- 
tion ! The French are so — er — enchantin’, don’t ye 
think so ? So satisfyin’ — eh ? It was quite a favorite 
dish with me when I was in Paris ! I thought it most 
comfortin’. Such a pleasure to meet somebody in the old 
country who knows what she’s eatin’. For the rest, I 
do assure you, me dear Mrs. Yancourt, that they are 
ginerally quite content with the roast of beef — the leg of 
mutton — the baiiled fowl — the horrible,” with hands up- 
lifted in the latest French style, “ baiiled fowl.” 

“Horrible!” says Mrs. Yancourt. 

“ I hate it ! ” says Peter. 

“ So do aii ” says Mrs. Yancourt. 

This, in some way, disposes of Peter. 

“ How unkind of you,” says Eusebius. “ That plate 
you have before you was meant for some one else, and yet 
you, having purloined it, are rude to the original owner.” 

“ Who was it meant for ? For that ‘ rival ’ of mine 
you spoke of just now?” 

She has abandoned all interest in Peter’s edible gift, 
and is now staring at Eusebius with eyes widely awake. 

“ Did I speak of a rival ? Surely not one of flesh and 
blood?” 

“ Oh ! let us have none of that,” says she, frowning. 


214 


NOB A CBEINA, 


“ I am in earnest. Flesh and blood ! What has that 
got to do with it ? ” 

‘‘Not much in this case,” says Eusebius, who, after all, 
cannot resist the sense of humor that forever masters 
him. 

“ Ah ! I see ! ” says she. 

“ I expect you saw it a long time ago,” says Eusebius, 
equably. “ You might have seen it even sooner but for 
her. You have not noticed it, perhaps, but, as a fact, she 
is endowed with a strong percentage of that ‘ Kam ’ of 
which Bret Harte speaks so feelingly in one of his inim- 
itable tales. She does not wear her heart upon her sleeve 
for you to peck at. She is hard to move. That gives her 
the cachet that distinguishes her.” 

“How you admire her!” says Mrs. Yancourt. She 
looks at him and adds slowly — viciously — “ How you love 
her!” 

“ To love her is a liberal education,” says Eusebius in 
his immovable way. “We have all learned that. Yam 
only one amongst the many. I am a mere nobody, in fact. 
You,” — he pauses, perhaps to give emphasis to his words 
— “ you, who know all things, know also the man who is 
at this moment at her feet.” 

“ Why yes, I do,” says she. But she turns very pale. 
“ It is says she. 

“ Tut ! ” says he. “ Have I not told you I am nobody ? 
Am I beside her then ? The man who loves a woman is 
always beside her when circumstances permit. See, who 
is beside her now ? ” 

Mrs. Yancourt looks at him for a second with dilated 
eyes, and then follows his gaze. It takes her to the other 
side of the room, where Nora, Carnegie and Ferris are 
standing together round a small, oval table. 

“Well?” says she, collecting herself, but with an 
effort, and looking at Eusebius with a supercilious eye. 

“ Well — it is not Carnegie,” says he. 

“ Oh ! who can tell ? ” 

“ I can ! ” 

“ I daresay you are a judge ! ” 

“ I daresay I am. For one thing, see how he looks at 
her ! ” 

“ Who?” 

“Ferris. My dear Mrs. Yancourt, you are a friend of 


NOEA CEEINA. 215 

both, as I have heard, why should T not speak ? See for 
yourself how Ferris looks at Miss Carew.” 

She does see evidently. She grows so silent, so white, 
indeed, that Eusebius becomes uneasy. 

‘‘ The cat may look at the king, after all,” says he. 
He had hoped to help her out of a difficulty, but he is 
electrified by her answer. She turns upon him a cool, 
calculating glance. There is nothing of agitation, or 
anger, or despair in it. 

“ In this instance,” says she, smiling, “ I think it is the 
king who is looking at the cat ! ” 

“ Do you mean Miss Carew by that ? ” asks Eusebius 
with a sudden frown. “ If so, I think you take a wrong 
reading of the whole affair. Perhaps, though you are a 
friend, as I have said, of both, you have not grasped the 
real meaning of the friendship that exists between Ferris 
and Miss Carew; you may perhaps indeed be unaware 
that Ferris is desperately in love with Miss Carew ? ” 

“ I certainly am unaware of it,” says she. She is 
smiling. She draws up her lopg suede glove, and caresses 
it into shape. 

‘‘If they were to marry, should you be aware of it 
then ? ” says Eusebius, who is conscious of a slight feel- 
ing of irritation. 

“Oh, then!'^'" she smiles freshly and taps his arm with 
her fan. “ I shall never be aware of it,” says she. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

“Lay me in my hollow bed, 

Grow the shamrocks over me, 

Three in one, one in three, 

Faith, and hope, and charity. 

Peace, and rest, and silence be 
With me where yon lay my head ! 

O, dear the shanii ocks are to me ! ” 

“Xo! Xo more lies ! Do you hear? Do you think I 
can’t read you ? ” She turns to him a face absolutely trans- 
figured by rage. “Do you think I did not notice your ex- 
pression — and hers — as you came up those balcony steps 
^n hour ago ? Ani I blind — a fool ? ” 


21G 


NORA CREINA, 


It is two hours later. And now all the rooms are quite 
deserted. The guests have gone, the music is hushed, 
the flowers lie dead, or dying. Poor flowers ! plucked to 
grace a little moment in our lives, and then to be cast out 
— unloved and unremembered. 

In here, in the library, the lights are still burning, al- 
though, through the closed curtains, the flrst cold gleams 
of day are stealing. Mrs. Yancourt, standing before Fer- 
ris, with her little fragile figure actually trembling with 
anger, is looking white, haggard, beneath these flrst try- 
ing struggles of the coming day. 

‘‘Read me! Why should you not read me?” says 
Ferris. He is nearly as white as she is, however. Though 
this scene had been prevented by Eusebius Brush some 
hours ago, he always knew it was bound to come sooner 
or later. He had done his best to avoid it to-night, but 
Mrs. Yancourt had elected otherwise, and he had little 
chance against her in any way when once she had set her 
mind upon a thing. He knew this. He knows it always. 
It is, perhaps, one of the reasons why he so devoutly dis- 
likes her. 

“Ah! why, indeed? What a loathsome hypocrite you 
are, Cyril,” says Mrs. Yancourt, with most commendable 
openness. “ And yet what an idiot ! You think I know 
nothing — nothing! That I am a poor, fond fool — hood- 
winked by you ! — by you! I tell you,” stamping her foot 
upon the floor with violent passion, “it is you who are the 
fool ! and I who have not been hoodwinked, but have borne 
with you as long as I was able. But I shall bear no more. 
I shall not stand being told to my face — that you love — 
that girl ! ” 

“ What girl ? ” 

Mrs. Yancourt regards him closely, unpleasantly closely, 
for a moment or two. She is by nature very vulgar, but 
just now she is also very much in earnest. The earnest- 
ness and the vulgarity combined produce her answer. 

“You make me sick!” says she slowly, and oh ! the 
contempt of her tone. In spite of himself, it unnerves 
him. It is a finishing stroke indeed, as he has so much to 
unnerve him already that he has not strength for more. 
If Eldon Yancourt throws him over, nothing on earth lies 
before him but absolute, unredeemable poverty. He is in 
debt up to his eyes. He has no prospects. Even to Uvq 


NOB A C BE IN A, 


217 


— to eat^ he would be reduced to that worst of all things 
to his species, work! No wonder his heart sinks within 
him. 

I suppose you mean Nora Carew,” says he sullenly. 
“I came up those steps with her. Well, what of it?” 

“That’s what I want to know,” says his small Nemesis 
promptly. “ What were you doing out there in the gar- 
den with her ? What were you saying to her ? Look here, 
Cyril, I’ve not forbidden you up to this — to speak to — that 
girl — but when it comes to Mr. Brush’s telling me that 
you are desperately in love with lier — why, then I draw 
the line ! I’m not going to be made a laughing stock of 
by you — or any man. D’ye hear?” 

“ I hear,” doggedly. “ Am I to understand then that 
you object to my talking to cmy girl?” 

“ Stick to the point,” says he. “I am talking of Nora 
Carew — of no other girl on earth.” 

“ But why Miss Carew in particular? ” asks he, with a 
last lame attempt at being in ignorance of all of which she 
is accusing him. It is a fatal effort on his part. It rouses 
once more the demon of jealousy within her. She had 
talked herself almost into calmness, but now she bursts 
forth again. 

“You must be mad to talk to me like that ! ” cries she 
furiously. “ Do you imagine that I know nothing ? That 
no word of your secret meetings with that girl has 
reached me ; of your philanderings with her beside that 
silly stream at the end of her wood ? Hah ! ” with a sharp 
intonation, “ that touches you, eh ? ” 

He has colored, and drawn back involuntarily. That 
little river, almost sacred to him once — his meetings with 
Nora. Has she set spies upon him ? 

“I tell you,” continues she, her words running from her 
with the rapidity of lightning, “ I know more than that — 
more than you imagine. I know all — all! You have no 
silly girl to deal with here^ Cyril ! ” laying her hand upon 
her breast, “ but with a woman who will understand now, 
at once^ what you intend doing.” 

“ What do you want to understand ? ” asks he, clearing 
his throat. 

“ How it is to be with us from this hour. How it is to 
be with her and me also. It is in your hands, you shall 
decide. Take five minutes to decide, and put the case Avell 


218 


NOUA CBEINjL 


before you. You,” with a cruel smile, “ can marry her, 
and starve, or,” coarsely, ‘‘you can marry me, and Uoe!^'' 

It is a terrible moment. Ferris is so far decently bred 
and cultured that the hideous vulgarity of the little, soft, 
refined-looking woman before him, shocks him to his very 
soul. At this instant he loathes her ; but above the loath- 
ing, and strong enough to overpower it, lies his desire for 
wealth, for show, for ease. His own soul, in spite of his 
birth, is very vulgar too ! 

Mrs. Yancourt, as if to give him his five minutes, has 
gone to the window nearest her, and deliberately drawn 
aside the curtains. A flood of cold, sad light flows in. 
The windows are open, the air is very chill, but to Mrs. 
Yancourt the swift sweep of the morning wind is sweet, 
although it beats upon her naked arms and bosom. 

She lifts her eyes, and above them in the lightening 
heavens the clouds, white and gray, are tinged with a 
growing pink. The moon is still here, but faint and dy 
ing, killed, conquered by the great god. Sun. A piercing, 
golden ray of his, mounting the far hill, declares the com- 
ing of the day. 

The garden, moist with dew, lies still sleeping. The 
delicate perfumes from it rise and stir the tender, ncAV- 
born air, and, mmgling with it, spreads broadly, north 
and south, sweets manifold. 

To Eldon Yancourt all these joys are as though they 
never had been. She sees, she feels, none of them. Her 
heart is on fire — a growing sense of anger dulls her per- 
ceptions. She has one thought only — and that is for 
vengeance on the girl who has dared to dispute with her 
the affections of the man she loves. 

She has told herself for three years that she loves Fer- 
ris, yet there are, and have been, moments when she is 
doubtful as to how far she regards him above his fellows. 
She is quite aware that his coming awakes within her a 
pleasurable excitement, and that a suspicion of his con- 
stancy enrages her ; but beyond that 

Just now a doubt is troubling her. A doubt as to 
whether this game she is playing is worth the candle. 
But she puts it from her. She will conquer Nora! At 
all events Nora shall never conquer her. That girl shall 
never marry Ferris ! There is madness in this thought. 
To be defeated — cas^aside, for a little, silly, country girl. 


NOBA CBMKA. 219 

who has seen nothing of life — to whom life at its best is 
a hidden mystery — / 

She rouses herself, and leaning over the balcony takes 
a look round her. It is brighter now, gayer. There is 
more light ; and even as she looks a sound breaks upon 
her ears. 

The song of birds ! The glad, sweet song of larks and 
linnets — the music of thrushes. Unconsciously — for her 
soul is too poorly nurtured to care for the music of nature 
— the exquisite sweetness of the hour enters into her — 
mixed with the tender rushings of the river down there 
below, and the swellings of the velvet winds. 

Suddenly she feels a hand upon her arm. It is Cyril’s. 
She had given him five minutes to decide — but within that 
time he had decided. To commit suicide is folly. There- 
fore one must live. And to live uncomfortably — that 
would mean life with Nora Carew, although he loves her. 
No — impossible. He will marry Eldon Vancourt, although 
he hates her ! f 

‘‘ Well ? ” says she. There is a sudden glow of triumph 
in her eyes. “You have come to say ” 

“ That you distrust me,” says he. 

“ Thoroughly,” replies she promptly. She knows him 
perfectly, and to give in to him at the supreme 
moment, might be, perhaps, to lose her point, and give 
him to her rival forever. 

“Eldon! Have you considered the meaning of your 
words ? ” says he, with the idea of gaining time. 

“ Considered it ! I have, indeed ! ” She has flung his 
arm from her, and now comes back from the open window 
to the middle of the room. He follows her. “ I have con- 
sidered it for many months ! I have considered it suffi- 
ciently to know that I cannot now withdraw from ” 

She pauses. 

“ From — what ? ” 

“ My engagement to you.” 

“ Ah 1 That is good news,” says he, with a smile, meant 
to be joyful ; but his tone belies it. 

“ Is it ? Are you sure ? Is there no other engage- 
ment ? ” 

“ Are you mad ? ” asks he. 

His face is so ghastly, that she puts up her hand. 

“ No other then? ” There is a strange mockery in the 


*220 


NOUA CRm^A, 


glance she gives him. “ Yet Mr. Brush gave me to under- 
stand as much. He hinted at an engagement between 
you and that little Carew girl. He was as insulting as he 
could be He,” clenching her hands — “ meant to be in- 

sulting. However, there is comfort in all things.” She 
breaks olf, and bursts into a low, nasty little laugh. “ He 
is in love with her too ! And I am glad of it,” vindic- 
tively. “ Because she will not look at him. Never — 
]N ever ! ” 

“ Never ! ” says Ferris hastily — madly — unthinkingly. 

“ Ah ! says she. It is a sudden exclamation ; she pauses 
— looking at him. It is an opening, but she does not 
follow it up ; why, she could hardly have explained, even 
to herself. But she buries that passionate, sure ‘‘ Never,” 
amongst other things, to be recollected on a future 
day. 

“ Eusebius Brush detests me, nearly as much as I detest 
him,” says Ferris calmly. “No doubt he has told you 
things about me, that were meant to lower me in your 
opinion ” 

“And raise the little Carew girl. Probably. As I 
have said, he is in love with Nora. But, I have deter- 
mined upon putting all he said behind me. I have gone 
too far with you, Cyril, to give you up now — whatever,” 
with a queer smile — “ I should like to do. My friends— 
not our friends here — our friends in England — have con- 
gratulated me too often on my coming marriage with you, 
to allow of any rupture between us. Besides which — I am 
not going to let that girl triumph over me.” 

“ She could not triumph over you.” He forces himself 
to utter this. 

And it is so true too. There will indeed be no triumph 
for Nora — all her grace, all her beauty, all her sweet- 
ness, cannot outweigh the golden charms of her rival ! 

“ People say otherwise ! ” a sneer curling her lip. 

“ People ! Eusebius Brush ! ” with an attempt at scorn. 
“ Are you going to take his word against mine ? ” 

“ Oh ! as for that! ” Her tone is so contemptuous that 
the dark blood mounts to his brow. A sudden desire to 
give her back insult for insult — to tell her what he thinks 
of her, how he loathes her — almost overcomes him ; but not 
quite. In time he remembers, and stands silent. It is so 
well to remember, when one’s interests are at stake ! 


KonA cnmisrA. 


m 

“We will leave your word out of the question,” says 
she. “ I have told you that I decline to he regarded hj 
my friends jilted^ to use an ugly word ; hut there is 
another, a stronger, reason why I keep to my engagement 
with you.” She pauses — and looking at him, grows sud- 
denly very pale. “ It is strange,” she goes on, in a low 
tone. “ It is so strange to myself, that at times it hints to 
me of madness — but — I love you ! ” 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

“ The hour is past to fawn or crouch 
As suppliants for our right.” 

“But on the cause must go, midst joy, or weal, or woe.” 

“ Eldon ! ” He makes a movement towards her, and 
holds out his hand. She brings her fan down upon it, 
with such venom, such passionate force, that the pretty 
toy of tortoise-shell and lace falls broken to the ground. 

“ Stand back,” says she, hoarsely. “ Is this a moment 
in which to endure your caresses ! I tell you, that the 
love I feel for you is of so strange a nature, that some- 
times I cannot be sure myself whether it is love — or that 
stronger feeling still, called hate. I doubt — I doubt about 
it — but some day I shall know — and soon. But,” vehe- 
mently— “ there is one thing about which I have no doubt 
at all, and that is, that I despise and detest myself for 
ever having loved you ! ” 

“ The remedy is in your own hands,” says he, sullenly. 

“Would it be a relief to you?” She laughs aloud — a 
bitter laugk. “ Xo, I shall not use that remedy ; though 
I know I should have a full revenge on you if I did so. 
You dread poverty — you desire money — you shall have 
it ; and with it” — a curious light in her eyes — “ Me/ Be 
comforted, you shall have the spending of my dead hus- 
band’s money — to a certain extent. You shall have your 
house in town — your country seat — your shooting — 
horses — all that your soul desires. But — ” she pauses, 
and fixes him Avith her clear, pale, blue eyes, that now 
seem almost white — “you shall purchase it all. You 
shall give up Nora Carew.” 


muA cnmKA, 


m 

‘‘ You seem mad on that point ! ” cries he, violently; his 
hand is still stinging with the pain of the blow she had 
given it. Such a tiny hand to give so fierce a wound — so 
fragile a form to contain so strong a will ! 

“I am never mad,” says she, icily. “You will go to 

that girl to-morrow — and put an end finally to your 

How shall we call it?” with a mocking intonation — 
“ Your friendship with her ! ” 

“ Lady Saggartmore has arranged that I shall drive her 
to Courtown to-morrow.” 

“ You shall break that arrangement. It will be little 
trouble to you. You, who are so famous at excuses, can 
surely invent one more to please the woman you are 
going to marry. You will see Miss Carew to-morrow! 
Do you hear ? ” 

“ I hear ! ” There is a touch of revolt on his handsome, 
weak, false face that does not escape her. 

“ Does that mean that you will not heed ? ” She takes 
a step towards him — she is trembling with rage — she 
runs her fingers in a quick, sharp fashion through her 
beautiful, loose, red hair. “You shall heed,” says she, 
fiercely. “You shall see that girl, and put an end to 
everything between you. On that consideration alone — I 
shall — spare her reputation ! ” 

“ Her — reputation /” His eyes now are blazing. 

“ Yes, is it so sweet, so pure a thing that one dare not 
even mention it ? Do you think my breath can tarnish it ? 
What of all those secret meetings between you and her, 
those tender moonlight assignations. Ah ! as I told you 
before, you thought me a mere tool in your hands — a 
blind fool — to be caressed and managed, and kept in the 
dark! But all through, I have knotcn^ and I have waited 
■ — waited to set my foot upon her neck ! ” 

(“And upon yours,” was almost on her tongue, but she 
checked herself ; it would not do to defeat her purpose 
now. She will see it out — to the end — the end that shall 
be bitter for both.) 

“ Oh no, 1 was not the fool,” says she. “ It was Miss 
Carew! Y\\q sainted JYora ! Here she laughs. “The 
angel who, unknown to her household, creeps out at mid- 
night to meet her lover, who ” 

Whatever other cruel words she was going to utter in 
her rage and jealousy, die in her throat. Ferris has 


NonA cumna. 


223 


caught her by both arms and is now shaking her vio- 
lently. A man who can only love a woman in a half- 
hearted, selfish fashion, is just the sort of man to be rough 
to any other woman who may chance to upset his temper. 

‘‘ It is a lie ! ” says he in a low, but hoarse tone. ‘‘ A 
lie ! I never saw her alone — never ! I swear it ! ” Per- 
haps a last remnant of grace towards the poor child he 
has made so miserable, through her young, honest, 
healthy belief in him, stirs him now to a passion of her. 
Perhaps too, Mrs. Yancourt’s late declared intention of 
sticking to her engagement with him, despite of all vague 
hints as to his constancy, has given him courage to 
protest. “ I never saw her without her sister — without 
Sophie Carew. It is a lie, I tell you.” 

“ Do you mean that I am lying. Take care,” says she 
in a dangerous tone. 

He recovers himself at once. He lets her go, and finds 
to his surprise that he is reeling backwards. He catches 
the arm of a chair and steadies himself. He is quite clear 
in a second. It was evident the strain of the last mo- 
ments had told upon him. 

Look here ! ” says he, laughing quite naturally. 
“What does it all come to? Nothing!” he says this 
with persistence in his manner. “Nothing really. We 
have had a row or two before, Eldon, in the old days, but 
what did they come to either ? you can’t do without me, 
and ” 

He stops. Eldon has burst out laughing — there is 
nothing bitter in this laugh, however, it is filled with 
genuine amusement. 

“ Go on — go on,” cries she. 

“And I,” says he a little damped perhaps by that 
impromptu laugh, but still firm in his hope, “ and I — can- 
not live without you.” He throws a quite lover-like look 
into his eyes as he says this. 

“ says she; she laughs almost violently now. 

“ So you think you cannot live without me ? — Xive / ” 
There is bitter sarcasm in her tone. Then suddenly she 
changes it. Her glance grows very mild. “You really 
mean it?” asks she prettily, standing back from him, 
however, but smiling very sweetly. “ That you can’t live 
without me ! Ah ! I almost believe it ! ” 

Is there satire in her light eyes ? 


224 


]^ORA CUMNA. 


You should believe it! ” says he, frowning. “ To dis- 
pute it, is to dispute my love for you.” He quite looks 
the lover as he says this. He has evidently entered con 
amove mio his part. “If I have been a little rough to 
you, Eldon, you must blame yourself. I cannot stand this 
disbelief in me. For four years I have been your — slave 
— I am content to be so still. I can say no more.” 

“ Well — perhaps I was wrong,” says she, in a silky little 
tone. She smiles. Her smile as well as her tone is as 
silky as possible. “You see,” giving. him her hand — at a 
distance however — “ that I acknowledge my fault — that 
I still trust you ; and to prove it ” — she presses his hand 
here, and smiles again — “I shall remind you of what I 
spoke to you about a few minutes ago. About that little 
Nora Carew — you know what I wish about that. And 
you — will do it ? ” 

“ Your wish is my law ! ” 

“Does that ambiguous answer mean ‘yes’?” with a 
slight tightening of her lips. 

“Yes,” says he. It seems to him as he says it, that he 
has given up his soul to the Evil One. But there is no 
room for temporizing — it is too late to play with the 
question. His Fate, small but inexorable, is standing 
before him, watching him with a mocking eye. “ Yes.” 
The word falls from him, and with it, falls all hope of love 
forever more. 


CHAPTER XL. 

“ I would I were on yonder hill, 

’Tis there I’d siKand cry my fill, 

And every tear would turn a mill, 

Is go de tu mo murnin sldn,’’' 

Nora had bidden her step-mother good-night in the hall 
and had smiled a little refusal at Sophie, who had said 
something about talking it all over in her bedroom. 
“ She was tired, she had danced too much, it was day- 
light, she shoidd get an hour or two of sleep,” excuses 
came languidly but eagerly from her pale lips. 

“Yes, bed — bed is the place for you,” said Miranda 
kindly, giving her a gentle, if energetic, push towards the 


l^OUA CBElI^A, 225 

staircase. ‘‘You have been enjoying yourself too much, 
that’s the fact, you are now paying for it.” 

Nora had glanced at her, Soj^hie had seen the glance 
and it disturbed her. “Yes, now I am paying for it,” 
repeated Nora, with a laugh that rang falsely. She 
turned then, and went up the stairs. Sophie could see 
that her steps were languid, but she could not see the 
expression of her face. But somehow, she made a picture 
of it in her mind ; and the picture frightened her. 

She in turn bade Miranda good-night, kissing her affec- 
tionately ; there was something about the big, loud, vul- 
gar woman that appealed to both her and Nora. That 
Miranda liked them was not to be doubted, a charm in 
itself ; and something about her that spoke of affection 
denied her all her life, a sense of loneliness with all her 
wealth, softened their young hearts towards her. 

It is half an hour later. Sophie in her own room, 
removing her pretty ball-gown, and laying aside her 
dainty gloves and fan, and putting Denis’s exquisite bou- 
quet of flowers into water, is haunted all the time by 
that strange glance of Nora’s. What misery there was 
in it ! what had happened ? She had seen, of course, that 
Ferris had scarcely danced with her — it might be that — 
. it mxist be that ; poor old darling ! What a horrible pity 
that she had set her affections on that odious, false, cruel 
creature ! As for his being handsome ! A tall, melan- 
choly, long-nosed man ! Give her a man like 

Why had Nora refused to talk the dance over with 
her ? Dances in Ballysaggart are so few and far between, 
that to talk them over afterwards, seems to be almost a 
necessity. Of course, Cyril had hurt her in some way ; 
oh ! if only she could be brought to see him in his true 
light, and — to see anotlier also, in Ms true light ! 

Here it occurs to Sophie again that there is something 
on her mind that must be worked off. To sleep with it 
still unrevealed would be impossible. It is a rather guilty 
little secret — a sort of confession that she feels bound to 
make ; but to disturb Nora noic, Miranda had said she 
was to go to bed — that sleep was necessary to her. Per- 
haps, however, even if in bed, she might not be yet asleep, 
and 

She steals softly out of her own room in her dressing- 
gown, and crossing the corridor, gently turns the handle 

15 


226 


KOUA CBEINA, 


of Nora’s door. Very gently, lest she should awaken her. 
The door opens — gradually, silently — and Sophie looking 
in, sees in the pale light of the glorious morning — Nora! 

Nora! still glad in her evening-gown. Nora! just as 
she was half an hour ago in the hall, except that the long 
suede gloves have been torn from her arms, and that 
those pretty naked arms are supporting her bowed head. 
The window has been flung wide open as though on enter- 
ing the room she had gasped for air. She is sitting before 
a table, her face hidden — prone, prostrate. She is quite 
motionless — no sobs are shaking her slight frame, but the 
whole attitude is suggestive of grief too great almost to 
be borne. 

Sophie, terrifled, standing still upon the threshold, 
hardly knows what to do — whether to advance or go back 
again. Then a fearful doubt crosses her mind, she takes 
a step forward. The extreme quietude of the figure has 
sickened her with fear. 

“ Nora ! ” says she sharply. 

Nora springs to her feet. 

“ I told you — I told you, I did not want you to-night,” 
cries she angrily. Then suddenly checking herself — 
“You unnerved me,” says she, with a most miserable 
attempt at composure. “I was so tired, I believe,” 
laughing, “ I have almost fallen asleep at this table.” 

“Why do you treat me like this, Nolly?” says Sophie, 
reproachfully — tears in her eyes. “Can’t I help you at 
all ? Who have Ave got in all the world but each other ? 
Don’t close your heart against me^ Nora ! ” 

“I am a wretch,” says Nora, impulsively. She holds 
out her arms to Sophie, and presses her to her, and kisses 
her fondly. 

“You are unhappy, darling?” says Sophie, very softly. 

“Yes. If you will make me speak.” The words come 
from her slowly, reluctantly — she turns away, and walks 
to the window. 

“ It is about Cyril ? ” 

“A wise guess. Who is there,” bitterly, “ except Cyril, 
who coidd make me unhappy ? ” 

“Nora,” Sophie folloAvs her to the window, “ if you 
think that, why — ichy don’t you break with him ? ” 

“ What an absurd — what a useless question,” returns 
Nora, with a frown that is born of pain. 


ISIORA C REIN A. 


227 


'« Why useless ? There are others.” 

“ Others?” 

‘‘Mr. Carnegie, I mean — he ” she pauses, checked 

by something in Nora’s face. 

“ Go on,” imperiously. “ He ? ” 

“ He too, loves you,” says Sophie, a little nervously. 

“That is not it,” says Nora quickly. “You have more 
to say. it. He has been speaking to you? What 

did he say? You have come here to tell me about it, 
Sophie, therefore do it at once.” 

“ He asked me to-night if I thought there was any 
chance for him.” 

“ Chance for him ? ” 

“ With you ? With regard to your marrying him ? ” 

“Well?” almost violently. The fragile body is indeed 
trembling with fear and despair, and anger. 

“Well — I — said nothing,” says Sophie, which perhaps 
is not all the truth. 

“Then you should have said something. You! who 
knew ! You, who know how it is with me. Do you thmk 
\ could ever love again?” 

“ I don’t see why you shouldn’t,” says Sophie, stoutly. 

“Don’t you? I wish Denis could hear you say that.” 
She laughs aloud, as if in mockery. Then suddenly her 
whole expression changes. “ Does no one really love, I 
wonder?” says she, in a voice of anguish. “No one but 
me f ” She leaves the window, and begins to pace rest- 
lessly up and down the room. “ Oh, what pain it is — 
what pain 1 ” murmurs she, pressing her hands against 
her breast as though the pain is there. 

The cold, calm light of the growing day is rushing in 
through the open window, bathing everything in its chilly 
rays. The heavens are brightening, and rose-hued clouds, 
far over there, are spreading themselves across the brow 
of the hill. Bird is calling to bird — there is stir and life, 
and movement, everywhere in the sweet awakening 
world — and here — here, where this little, white-clad figure 
is moving restlessly from door to casement and back 
again, there is life too — but life at its saddest. 

“ Mr. Carnegie loves you, Nora. He loves you,” says 
Sophie, whose heart is bleeding for her. 

“ Well, it is no use. Tell him that. Do you hear, 
Sophie? Tell him it is no use at all. If he loves me — if 


228 


NORA CREINA. 


he suffers as I suffer — I am sorry for him — but that is 
all. I cannot return his love — I shall never love again.” 

“ But Nora, darling ” 

Nora turns upon her ; her small sweet face afire. 

“ Tell him that — that only,” says she. 

“ I shall tell him,” says Sophie, sighing. 

“Just fancy!” says Nora, pausing in her rapid walk, 
and looking at Sophie with distressed eyes. “ He has 
told Sir Fell too. Sir Fell, of a// people! That was a 
very deliberate action, I think.” 

“ Deliberate ? How ? ” 

“ You know very well ; he wished to prevent a chance 
of a refusal. He told Sir Fell — he told you — Heaven 
alone knows how many other people he has told, of his 
hateful desire to marry me. It seems to me,” feverishly, 
“ as though he were determined to cry it aloud from the 
house-tops.” 

“ But surely, Nolly darling, all that argues for him — for 
his honest love for you, I mean.” 

That word “honest” maddens poor Nora. That other 
— has he been honest ? 

“ I don’t care what argues for or against him,” says she 
harshly. “*1 shall never marry him, not though Sir Fell 
and Fate itself gave me to him. I hate him, I think ! ” 

“Oh, Nora!” 

“Yes. I do hate him,” quickly, “ if only because he loves 
me. Why should he be the one to love me ? ” 

She stops short, horrified at the fear that she has 
betrayed herself ; “ When Cyril will not love me,” had been 
on her lips, at her heart : Love, 

“ The bitter sweet, the honey blent with gall,” 

is destroying all the sweetness, and brightness, and 
beauty of her. 

“ We all love you, Nolly,” says Sophie, very sadly. 

“Do you ? I don’t seem to care now whether you do or 
not,” says Nora. She has ceased her troubled pacing of 
the room, and going to the open window looks out upon 
the lovely morn. 

The sun is just breaking through the clouds and on the 
top of the far hill a rosy gleam is spreading. Nora’s eyes 
dwell upon it — such sad, wide young eyes, without a touch 
of hope in them. 


NOEA CREINA, 


229 


Sophie cannot bear to look at her. 

“ Nolly, wouldn’t it be better if you talked right out to 
me ?” says she. “You are in grief — you are unhappy. 
It would be folly on my part to say I don’t know the cause 
of it. I ” — delicately, and very nervously — “ noticed that 
Cyril did not dance much with you to-night.” 

“ How could he dance much with me ? ” says Nora, 
facing her suddenly, like a little fury. “ Would he expose 
me to the anger of Sir Fell ? Be just, Sophie, even if you 
do detest Cyril ! ” 

“ I am not unjust,” says Sophie, hotly. “ If it Avas Sir 
Fell who compelled him to refrain from dancing with you, 
I can only say that Mrs. Yancourt is to b^ congratulated 
— she has no step-father ! ” 

Sophie had lost her temper. In another second she is 
penitent. Nora’s pale face is even paler now. She leans 
a little heavily against the side of the window. 

“ You are cruel ! ” says she, in a voice that is almost a 
whisper. “ You say things that cut me to the heart, and 
yet you tell me you love me ! ” 

“ Nora, I am sorry, I am dreadfidly sorry ! I should 
not have said that. But — am I to be silent always, and 
see you suffer ? I distrust Cyril — I cannot help it. I 
know you will always hate me, for that alone — but I must 
speak. And, indeed, it is better that you should hate me 
than be wretched for all your life! ” 

“ Why should I be wretched ? Because,” passionately, 
“Cyril loves me?” 

No,” in a low tone, but firmly. “ Because he does 7iot 
love you.” 

“ Sophie ! ” 

“ Not as you should be loved.” 

“ That means, only — ‘ not as Mr. Carnegie loves you.’ 
Well, I don’t Avant to be loved by your Mr. Carnegie. I 
Avant to be loved where I love again. Sophie — to-morroAV 
evening he has asked me to meet him down by the old 
bridge.” She pauses. “ The old bridge — the old place — 
shall I ever forget it I wonder — shall I — have to for- 
get 

Her face grows ghastly. Sophie, thinking she is going 
to faint, takes her into her arms. 

“You Avill come withune, Sophie?” asks she, leaning 
against her sister’s bosom. She puts up her hand and 
takes Sophie’s. 


230 


NOUA CBEINA, 


“ Of course, darling. Oi course! Oh, Nora! Where 
would I not go with you ? ” 

“ Then that is settled,” says Nora, softly. She is silent 
for a time. It seems a long, long time to Sophie. But 
presently she speaks. 

‘‘ Dear — dear Sophie,” says she. ‘‘ Sophie, you will 
never know how I love you ! It is so hard to be nice Avhen 
one is unhappy. And sometimes, Sophie — I wish — I often 
wish — that I was dead ! ” 

‘‘ Oh ! Nora ! Oh ! Darling ! No. No. Oh, doyHt say 
that,” says Sophie. She clings to her little, pretty sister 
and bursts into tears. Tears are so new to Sophie, that 
now, seeing her sobbing, Nora, in turn, grows frightened. 
Sophie ! who nerer cries ! 

“ Sophie — Sophie ! Think — It would be best . . .” 

She breaks down here. Most mercifully, the sight of 
Sophie’s tears have given her tears of her own. She 
abandons herself to the grief that is consuming her, and 
sobs bitterly in Sophie’s arms. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

“ I pity her who never more will know 
Contentment here below ; 

* * * * 

“ But weep for one whose bitter wail 
Is poured upon the gale, 

Like the shrill bird that flutters nigh 
The nest where its crushed offspring lie.” 

Sir Fell had been much exercised in mind over Car- 
negie’s proposal for Nora. Nora’s mother’s will had given 
him complete control over Nora and her sister until the 
girls should be twenty-five, and after that too — a fact un- 
known to the girls. They had believed themselves eman- 
cipated from all control on their twenty-fifth birthday ; 
but, as a fact. Sir Fell can refuse his consent to any mar- 
riage they may choose to contract, until the hour of his 
death, unless it meets his views. 

Now, Carnegie’s proposal suits his views altogether. 
St. John Carnegie has given Sir Fell to understand that 
he wants no fortune with Nora., That the five or six 
thousand that belong to Nora may be allowed to lie 


2^0RA CREINA. 


231 


fallow, and enrich her sister. And as Sir Fell can always 
refuse his permission to Sophie to wed with the impecu- 
nious Denis, and as the two five or six thousands can 
always bring in to Sir Fell a certain percentage, it is plain 
to see that he considers Carnegie — of all men — the most 
desirable as a husband for Nora. 

***** 

“ Sophie, he has sent for me. He wants to see me in 
the library,” says Nora, in a frightened tone, coming sud- 
denly into her sister’s room. It is the next day, and now 
close upon noon. 

‘‘Well, even if he does, it can’t be with the design of 
eating you,” says Sophie. “There, take courage, Nolly! 
Was there ever so chicken-hearted a baby? If — if” — 
searchingly — “you have made up your mind to refuse 
Mr. Carnegie — why do refuse him, and Avith spirit. 
Though I confess, Noll, my own heart sinks when I think 
of your doing so. But there ! — we’ve had enough of that.” 

“ He can be so very violent,” says Nora, faintly — who, 
however is alluding to Sir Fell. “He gives me a feeling 
j)f faintness — here !'^'' — laying her hand upon her heart, 
which indeed is beating violently. “There will be a 
tussle,” says she. 

“ But the weakest won’t go to the wall, I can see,” says 
Sophie, regretfully. “You will fight your battle to the 
bitter end — and you will gain ” 

“Love!” says Nora, with soft shining eyes. “Ah! 
you give me true courage, Sophie.” 

“Then, like the parrot, I’m sorry I spoke,” says Sophie 
grumpily. “ I’m not at all sure it was for your benefit. 
IIoweA^er, if you will burn your boats, do so with a high 
head. Give him to understand, once for all, that the days 
for chains and ‘ donjon keeps,’ and bread and water and 
•thumb-screws are at an end.” She sighs — “ More’s the 
pity,” says she. 

“Why? Do you want to see me tortured?” asks 
Nora, with a nervous laugh. “Ah! you are a queer 
pleader. You plead both sides. There ! I must go — 
but I do so dread him — the ordeal. Surely,” pathetically, 
“ I was born under an unlucky star.” 

Sophie refrains from replying. Truly, to her, too, it 
seems that there is truth in her sister’s words — though 
she would give them a wider, a weightier significance. 


232 


NOllA CliEINA. 


It is unlucky enough, perhaps, to he made the object ol 
Sir Fell’s wrath for half an hour or so, but surely it is 
unluckier far to cling to a love that is basely untrue, and 
reject another that is honesty itself. Yet she cannot 
bring herself to expostulate further with Nora, who is at 
this moment the very picture of misery. The sword of 
Damocles, that has trembled for so long a time within an 
inch of the lovely soft Grecian roll of sunny hair that 
adorns her charming head, is now about to fall. 

She is looking at Sophie as if so expecting an answer 
to her last remark, that Sophie finds herself compelled to 
say something. 

‘‘ Well, move, move ! ” cries she. “ Get from under it. 
Why stand still beneath misfortune?” 

‘‘ Move ! It is good advice. I shall ‘ move on ’ to the 
library and extermination,” says Nora. She goes towards 
the door. 

‘‘ W'hatever you do — if you won’t give in (how I wish 
you icoidd) — keep a high courage,” calls Sophie after her. 
And then, ‘‘ Shall I come with you ? ” 

‘‘ No, no.” 

The little martyr to love — the unhappy Princess — goes 
reluctantly down the stairs, and across the hall to the 
library, where her Ogre she knows is awaiting her. In 
fear and trembling she goes, and like Agag ‘‘ delicately.” 
She moves, indeed, on tiptoe, and very slowly, as though 
afraid of hearing her own footsteps. Certainly, she is 
afraid that he may hear them. She feels as though she 
is going to her execution. 

Even as she reaches the door, a sound above her head 
startles her almost into a cry. She looks up to see Sophie 
(who has decided upon giving her a last word of exhorta- 
tion), suspending half her body over the banisters, and 
craning her neck still further, at the imminent risk of 
breaking it. 

‘‘Give it to him, Nora,” whispers she, frantically. 
“ Don’t spare him ! Don’t get frightened, whatever you 
do ! Keep your eye w^ell on his ! He hates eyes ! And, 
above all, keep on talking. Yell at him if necessary.” 

It is unfortunate that, in her excitement, born of her 
desire for her sister’s victory over the common enemy, 
she too yells — a little. There is a sudden rasping noise 
in the library, as of a chair suddenly and indignantly 


NORA CEEINA, 233 

pushed back, and immediately afterwards the door is 
flung open. 

Sophie, with a smothered exclamation, withdraws from 
her poise on the banisters, and Nora looks with terrified 
eyes into Sir Fell’s wrathful ones. 

“ Who was talking out there ? I forbid talking in this 
part of the house when I am writing. But mj/ wishes are 
the last to be respected in this house. Walk in, Nora.” 
To poor Nora this sounds like the old and treacherous in- 
vitation from the spider to the fly. She obeys, and hears, 
with a feeling of despair, the heavy bang of the door 
behind her. 

“ You are no doubt aware of the matter on which I 
wish to speak with you,” says Sir Fell, with the hatefully- 
pompous manner he affects at times. “An honor — a 
(/reat honor has been paid you. I hope you are duly 
sensible of it.” 

“ You mean ” stammers Nora, who knows only too 

well what he means. 

“ I mean that Mr. Carnegie — a man of standing, birth, 
wealth and position — has condescended to ask your hand 
in marriage.” 

This insulting prologue gives to Nora, not only the 
small amount of courage that Nature has allowed her, but 
something more. 

“ I do not understand that word — condescended,” says 
she. 

“ Do you not ? ” says Sir Fell, calmly. “ Let me then 
explain it to you.” He pauses to cross one leg com- 
fortably over the other. “ It means that an insigni- 
ficant, almost penniless girl — a girl without anything 
whatsoever to recommend her so far as I can see — an 
ignorant girl, devoid of everything except,” emphatically 
and crushingly, “ an exceedingly bad temper, has had the 
unprecedented good luck to attract a man who is in every 
sense your superior.” 

“ He is so far my superior, by your account,” says 
Nora, bitterly, “that — I feel myself bound to refuse him.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” says Sir Fell, losing all at once 
his judicial air, and glaring at her as though the little 
fragile creature before him is a fiend. 

“ I mean,” in a low tone, “ that I shall not marry Mr. 
Carnegie.” 


234 


NORA CREINA, 


“ Pshaw ! ” says Sir Fell, insolently. ‘‘ What have you 
got to do with it ? I tell you I have accepted him. Zhave 
told him you will marry him. Go back to your room, girl, 
and study how to behave as the wife of a man so desirable 
in all respects as Carnegie.” 

“ I shall not marry him. I shall not marry him,” says 
ISTora, trembling — shivering indeed, with fright, but con- 
stant to her love for Cyril. Alas ! how sad a constancy ! 

“You defy me?” cries Sir Fell. “Hah!” This last 
exclamation comes like a snort from his annoyed nostrils. 
“ This arises out of your idiotic fancy for that immoral 
young fool, Cyril Ferris, I suppose?” 

“ You are wrong,” says Nora. “ It comes from nothing 
but the fact that I do not love Mr. Carnegie, and that 
therefore I shall not marry him.” 

“ Ah ! we shall see to that ! ” 

“ Yes, yes, you will see ! Nothing — nothing could make 
me marry him,” says the girl, standing before him with 
clasped hands and a terribly strained expression on her 
young, sad face. 

“ Shall I see anything else then ?” asks he, with a cruel, 
cynical smile. “ Shall I — if I miss seeing this marriage — 
live to see another — your marriage to another ; Ferris, for 
instance ? I think not. I think I shall be the oldest man 
on record — I think,” smiling still remorselessly, “ I shall 
be a modern Methuselah when I see that day.” 

“ Still, I shall not marry Mr. Carnegie,” says Nora, in 
so low a tone that he just barely hears her. ilis doubt of 
the truth of Ferris has gone straight to her heart. It has 
strangled all her new-found courage in her. His doubt — 
is it not her own doubt ? 

“And I tell you, you shall^'^ thunders Sir Fell, now los- 
ing all control over himself. “ I have given my word to 
him — I shall see that it is honored. Do you think a 
child like you can disarrange my plans ?” 

“I shall not marry him,” says Nora again. Her frozen 
lips refuse to form a different reading of the same deci- 
sion ; but the decision rests, her faithful heart refuses to 
alter it in so much as one line. 

Sir Fell, gazing at her with deadly wrath and hatred in 
his eyes, acknowledges the strength, the force in the small, 
pale, frightened face before him. He decides upon a slight 
change of tactics. 


iVOi^yi cuEmA, 


m 


‘‘ Be rational, girl ! ” says he roughly, but more reason- 
ably. ‘‘ The world lies before you ; grasp it while you can. 
Succumb to it, and it will bruise you body and soul ; defy 
it and it will lie grovelling at your feet. Fling off this 
penniless lover of yours, and take the good the gods pro- 
vide you.” 

“ It is dreadful — dreadful,” says Nora. She puts up her 
hands to her head as if in pain. “ I don’t understand you. 
I know nothing.” 

“ Then learn.” 

“ I shall never learn from you. I ” she stops dead 

short. “ I love Cyril,” had been on her lips, but she com- 
pels herself to silence. “ I am too old to learn,” says she, 
with an effort continuing her sentence. 

‘‘You are not too old to know this ! ” says Sir Fell, ris- 
ing angrily to his feet. “ That you shall * marry Carnegie 
before next Christmas. What! You would still cling 
to a man who is notoriously bound to another woman — 
to Ferris, to whom congratulations on his marriage with 
Mrs. Vancourt are pouring in every day?” 

“ It is not true — not true,” says the girl wildly. All her 
nervousness seems to have disappeared. “ There is 
not one word of truth in it,” says she. “Not one.” 
Her beautiful eyes are afire ; she flings back her head ; 
a sort of madness has seized upon her, and now ter- 
ror, even of this man, who has in so large a measure 
controlled her life, is forgotten by her. “You have in- 
vented it all — every word. He is not engaged to Mrs. 
Yancourt. I shall not listen to you again — not for another 
moment.” She goes quietly to the door. 

“ Stay — I command you ! ” roars Sir Fell. 

“No, no, no,” says she, and opening the door, goes 
through it gently, quietly, without haste, thus defying him 
as she goes. 


CHAPTER XLIL 

“ At the thought of the past, the tears gush from her eyes, 

And the pulse of her heart makes her white bosom rise.” 

Sir Fell rings the bell violently. Nora’s defiant depar- 
ture has raised his temper to fury. He desires the servant 


m 


KoHA cnmisrA, 


who answers his intemperate summons to send to him 
Lady Anketel without delay. Miranda, coming to him 
almost immediately, is astonished out of her usual calm 
at his appearance. 

‘‘ What’s the matter ? ” asks she. 

“ I^veri/thmg’s the matter. That girl — that idiot has 
positively refused to accei)t Carnegie — she, a pauper, to 
dare ” 

“ She is not exactly a pauper,” says Miranda, remindf ully. 

“Next door to it, anyway. Of course, if you are going 
to back her up in her folly, and tell her that she and that 
young fop, Ferris, can live in affluence on the interest of 
five thousand pounds, she will persist in this madness.” 

“ I am not likely to back her up there,” says Miranda 
calmly. “ I detest Ferris ; and besides, I know the value 
of money as much as” — drily — “ you do ! ” 

“ If you don’t encourage her in that way, you do in 
others,” storms Sir Fell, talking very fast, with a view 
to pretending he has not heard her last remark, which 
beyond doubt was not in good taste. “ She has been insub- 
ordinate always, but since you have come here, both the 
girls have got completely demoralized; what with the 
extravagant views you are inculcating in them, and the 
deliberate fashion in which on all occasions you ignore 
me and my wishes, they are growing beyond all control ! ” 

“ If it’s going to be one of your lectures on my behavior, 
says Miranda, rising, “ I give you to understand, my dear 
man ” — laughing lightly — “ that they always go off me, 
like water off the back of a duck. Ha ! ha ! There’s an 
opening for you ! Don’t see it ? Why you might pay me 
a compliment. Duck — eh ? ” 

Really she is very intolerable. Sir Fell makes an in- 
describable gesture that seems to raise rather than lower 
her mirth. 

“ Here — come on,” says she x)resently. “ You want me 
to do something, don’t you ? Something about Nora — and 
her nonsense.” 

“ I wished you to speak to her — to reason with her,” 
says Sir Fell, solemnly. “ But now, after this terrible 
outburst of vulgar levity, I hardly think you would be the 
person to win her over to a sense of her — er — duty.” 

“ If you had a little more levity about you,” says 
Miranda placidly, “ you’d be a lot easier to live with. Of 


]sfottA 237 

course, I’ll speak to Xora. She’ll mind me, maybe. 
Those girls are getting fond of me.” 

“ They’d be fond of any one who decked them out in 
silks and laces,” says Sir Fell contemptuously. 

“That isn’t all, though,” says Miranda. “We’ve 

cottoned to each other ” Here Sir Fell winces. 

“Yes, ‘cottoned,’” persists she even in a louder tone. 
“What’s the matter with that word? A first-rate 
one, I call it, and used by every one.” 

“ In your circle, I have no doubt,” says Sir Fell with a 
sneer. “ I should be greatly obliged to you if ” — another 
sneer — “you could get Nora to — er — ‘cotton’ to Car- 
negie ! ” 

“ I’ll do my best. If only for the poor girl’s own sake, 
says Miranda. “ I mistrust that Ferris. Fast and loose 
is the game he is playing with her. And if she thinks he 
will wait for five or six years to get her small fortune, 
she makes a mistake, poor child.” 

“Why?” 

“ Because, he is carrying on” — again Sir Fell shrinks as 
if hurt — “with that little Mrs. Yancourt — as big an imp 
as I know.” 

“ Hah ! ” says Sir Fell. “ I have seen something of 
that — but still I think if Nora’s fortune were to be had 
he would cling to Nora. However, if he waited io^ever^ 
he can never get that.” 

“ How so ? ” asks Miranda quickly. “ When she is 
twenty-five, she gets it, eh ? ” 

“ No ! ” says Sir Fell. “ That is the popular belief I 
know. But, even at twenty-five, if I disapprove — if I 
have honest reasons for disapproving of the man she wishes 
to marry, I can still refuse to give her her five thousand 
pounds.” 

“ Good Heavens, w^hat an injustice ! ” says Miranda. 
“ You are sure of this ? ” 

“ Perfectly ! If you wish to see a copy of the will ” 

“ No ! no ! ” says Miranda, who is sharp enough to see 
he is telling the truth. “ Well she w^asn’t much of a 
mother, any way,” says she, alluding, no doubt, to Nora’s 
dead parent. 

Sir Fell reddens angrily. 

“ I don’t know what you mean. I don’t see how she 
could be a better mother than by taking care that her 


288 


NOBA CBEINA. 


children were not made a prey to moneyless adventurers 
Would you. may I ask, sanction Nora’s marriage with 
Mr. Ferris?” 

“ I was not thinking of Nora.” Indeed, Miranda’s 
thoughts have flown to Sophie and her love. Denis 
Butler is a favorite of Miranda’s. 

“ Hah ! you are thinking of that idler, Denis Butler,” 
says he. Well, I may as well say at once that I shall 
not give my consent to that marriage either. As you 
are about it, you may as well, when talking to Nora, give 
Sophia a hint to that effect.” 

“ I shall do nothing of the kind,” says Miranda, flounc- 
ing out of her chair, and looking a little bigger than 
usual. “ Do your own dirty work yourself. For that’s 
dirty work, let me tell you, Anketell. He is as good a 
fellow as ever stepped, and with a little help, such as 
Sophie’s fortune, might manage to live happily enough.” 

“ Your ideas and mine, as I think you already know, 
do not agree,” says Sir Fell, icily. ‘‘ It is useless to dis- 
cuss the point. I shall thank you to go at once to Nora, 
and if possible influence her in the right direction.” 

“ Well, I’ll try,” says Miranda, “ though all I expect 
to gain by my interference is a rap over the knuckles.” 

‘‘ Good gracious ! What hideous expressions,” say Sir 
Fell, peevishly, wrinkling up his forehead as if conscious 
of some unpleasant odor. ‘‘ I thought you said the girl 
liked you ? ” 

Well enough to listen to me, but not so well as that 
scamp, Ferris,” says she. 

‘‘ Oh ! scamp — scamp ! Low word — very low ! ” says 
Sir Fell, shaking his head as if suffering. 

“ Ah ! for goodness’ sake, man, get sense ! ” says 
Miranda, prancing out of the room. 

It would indeed be impossible to say whose disgust 
towards the other is the higher. 

Miranda, going straight to Nora’s room, taps at her door. 

“ Nora, are you here ?” calls she. 

“ Yes,” says Nora from within. She opens the door, 
and standing on the threshold, looks at Miranda with 
questioning eyes — sad eyes, that betray at once to Mi- 
randa the fact that the owner of them has been crying. 
Crying, and bitterly. The sorrowful, swollen lids, the 
dull, mournful orbs, the touch of sullen defiance in the 


]!^OltA CtiSjmA. 239 

whole young, small face, wakens all at once a very storm 
of sympathy in Miranda’s ample bosom. 

Can’t I come in ? ” says she, alluding to the way in 
which the girl is standing, blocking the doorway as it 
were. 

“ You can, of course,” says Nora, reluctantly. “ But 
why ? ” 

“ Why ? To talk to you,” says Miranda. ‘‘ To talk to 
you of what you’ll hate certainly, but what will be for 
your good I hope.” 

‘‘ Oh ! the same story in different words,” says Nora, 
desolately. “ It will be no use for you, Miranda, none at 
all, I warn you of that. But you can come in, and talk 
if you like.” 

She casts herself — a little atom of humanity — looking, 
as Miranda thinks sorrowfully, smaller, and more fragile 
than ever to-day — into the depths of a huge old arm- 
chair that seems to swallow her up. 

“ You are feeling rather low down in the world, aren’t 
you ? ” says Miranda, following her to the big chair and 
arranging a pillow fondly behind her moody little head. 
“ And it’s all your own fault, isn’t it ? I’ve come to tell 
you that. And it’s hardly likely to be acceptable, eh ? ” 

“ You have come to tell me that I ought to give up 
Cyril and marry Mr. Carnegie,” says Nora, as scorning 
any leading up to the matter in question. 

“ Now I like that,” says Miranda, genially. “ It saves 
so much trouble. Nothing like coming to the point at 
once. Well, yes, my dear, I think the best day you’ll 
ever see will be the day on which you give up Cyril, and 
marry Carnegie.” 

‘‘I shall never marry Mr. Carnegie,” says the girl 
quietly enough, but with a sombre light in her beauti- 
ful eyes. “I have already told Sir Fell so. If he has 
sent you here as an ambassadress on the same subject, 
why, go back again and tell him your labor has been in 
vain.” 

“I sha’n’t go yet,” says Miranda, whose immovable 
good temper stands to her at all moments. “ I sha’n’t go 
till I have told you my opinion of Ferris — of Cyril, as I 
believe you call him. Sicch a name ! Just like him, isn’t 
it ? Light — fantastical — finical — no grip in it.” 

“ I like the name,” says Nora. She is now sitting up, 


240 


NOTtA CUEINA, 


and her eyes, sombre up to this, are beginning to blaze. 
‘‘ ‘ Light — fantastical — finical,’ — you don’t understand.” 

“I understand enough to know — ” Miranda is quite 
undisturbed by this outburst — ‘‘to know that finical 
means small. JSTow I have told you, you shall hear my 
opinion of Ferris. He is small if you like. I,” snapping 
her fingers, “ wouldn’t give tuppence for him.” 

Miranda had meant to do the best she could for her 
cause, but ambassadresses such as Miranda generally do 
the worst. To abuse Cyril is fatal. 

“ I have said you didn’t understand,” says Nora, in a 
frozen sort of way. “ How could you? You don’t know 
him. All you think of is, that he has no money — to 
speak of — and that Mr. Carnegie has a great deal. Oh ! you 
can see I have gone into it, but what puzzles me is, Avhen 
it is only money that is in question, why you so object to 
Cyril on that score, and yet you uphold Denis Butler’s 
engagement with Sophie. Now don’t think — don’t think,, 
— in a terrified way, as if shocked at what she has said — 
“ that I want to spoil Sophie’s happiness. Oh ! Miranda, 
not a word to Sir Fell about it — not a word. Oh you 
say a word ? ” 

“ Not half a one,” says Miranda. “ What a little 
Catharine-wheel, you are. There, sit down and let us 
talk this out.” 

Nora sits down. It seems to her as though her brain 
has been suddenly rent in two. Will Miranda help her, or 
will she not ? And even if she should help her, where 
shall she find herself ? She feels as though she has no 
solid standing anywhere ; like Mahommed’s Coffin, she 
seems to rest between earth and heaven. And heaven — 
heaven ! Alas ! she is afraid to dwell upon that. 
Still he had said he loved her — to-night — to-night she 
will meet him, and then she will know — know that he 
loves her. 

“ For one thing,” says Miranda, who is sorely non- 
plussed, “ Denis has a profession, Cyril has none. Rc is 
an idler on the face of the earth.” 

“ But ” 

“Yes, yes, of course. Still it is ‘But.’ Tip to this he 
has done nothing, whereas Denis has begun, and nv^v 
probably rise in his profession. He is clever.” 

“ Cyril is clever too.” 


i^onA cnEmA, 


241 


‘^You should transpose those two words,” says Mir- 
anda. After which there is a deadly silence. 

“You mean something?” says Nora at last, leaning 
forward. 

“A good deal,” plainly. 

“What have you to say against him?” There is so 
much anguish in the careful carelessness of the young 
voice, that Miranda’s courage — which is great — almost 
fails her ; but with the emancipation of the girl in view, 
she goes on, though with reservations to which she had 
told herself she would not be restricted. 

“ I can say this — that he — is false — that he is now, 
this moment, eng 

Nora, rising swiftly, lays two soft hands upon her 
mouth. 

“ says the poor child in a choked sort of way. 

“Don’t. It is a lie — a lie — a lie / 1 wonH believe it. He 
does love me. He does indeed, Miranda. Oh ! I could 
tell you things — things that he has said. I am sure, in 
spite of everything, I am sure he loves me a great deal 
more than he loves her. Oh ! a great deal ! He doesn’t 
love her at all. He — has told me so ! ” 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

“ But the sleety blast blows chill 
A gradh geal mo chroidhe 
Let me press thee closer still 
A gradh geal mo chroidhe 
To this scathing bleeding heart 
Beloved as thou art 
For too soon — too soon we part 
A gradh geal mo chroidhe,'^'' 

Miranda feels something stir within her. Could she 
but know it, it is the desire to weep. If she ever had 
wept in her unloved life she would probably have given 
way to her inclinations now, but custom is everything, 
and tears hitherto have been unknown to Miranda’s dull 

16 


242 


ISrOBA CHEINA. 


life. She remains silent, therefore, staring at Nora, with 
nothing but pity and unbounded compassion in her small, 
kind, brown eyes. 

“He would tell you that of course,” says she. 
There is no smallest touch of unkindness or satire in her 
tone. “ But I shouldn’t listen to him if I were you. 
Come, Nora, be sensible ! You must see that you can’t 
marry a man without a half-penny. A girl like you 
shouldn’t make a fool of herself about any man. Not 
one of ’em is worth it.” 

“Yet you got niarried,” says Nora resentfully. 

“ So I did, but then, you see, I had the requisite half- 
penny. Oh ! I’m not saying anything about my marriage. 
It was fair enough. If I had the money he had the title, 
and I always told myself I’d get the worth of my fortune 
when I married. A title has been my ambition all my 
life. Now I’ve got it. D’ye think if Anketell had been 
plain mister, I’d have had him ? Not likely ! I don’t at 
all mind saying I’d have seen him far first.” 

The terrific plainness of this speech strikes Nora dumb. 
Miranda, serenely unconscious of having said anything 
out of the common, goes on serenely, in her steady, heavy, 
imperturbable fashion : 

“ I knew all about him,” says she. “ Took him in at the 
first glance. Saw he was as selfish as he could stick, and 
that he had all the attributes that go to make up a first 
chop miser. I took care, however, he shouldn’t play the 
miser on me. I had every penny of my fortune tied up — • 
secured to myself — before ever I niarried him. I daresay 
he thought he could bully it out of me afterwards. But,” 
Miranda pauses and smiles placidly. “I’m not good to 
bully,” says she. 

“You certainly had courage to marry any man, know- 
ing all that of him,” says Nora, shocked, with lowered 
eyes. She makes a desperate effort to suppress the horror 
she is feeling. 

“ I don’t regret it,” says Miranda, cheerfully. “ I can 
hold my own anywhere. So far I may safely flatter 
myself. I defy any man born to sit on me. I married 
Sir Fell for position, and I’ve got it, and,” frankly, “ I 
enjoy it. He knows all that. I made no bones of telling 
him so.” Miranda is magnificently supplied with all 
sorts of commonplace expressions. She has, indeed, 


NOBA CBEINA. 


243 


quite a storehouse of them. “ But all this has nothing to 
do with you,” says she. ‘‘I’m afraid, Nora, you are not 
of the stuff of which I am made. You are finer, my dear — 
finer. You will wear out sooner. You want love — you 
depend upon love for your happiness — and I’m afraid 
you won’t find it where you most look for it ! ” 

“ I should rather be wretched with the man I loved, 
than — than live as you live,” says Nora, with sudden 
violence. She is standing looking at Miranda, with 
wrath and rage and disgust in her beautiful eyes. 

“ Well, of course it looks like that to you,” says Miranda 
placidly. “ At least it looks like that now. And if one 
could keep the present with one always, I daresay it 
would look like that to the end of the chapter. But you 
ought to look ahead, my dear. You ought indeed. You 
think of Ferris as an ideal lover — ^but can he love at all? 
Is he not a little below the average in every way ? Most 
men like their bread and butter — but I think Ferris is of 
the sort that will have it — no matter what it costs.” 

“You ” begins Nora, white as death now, but 

Miranda interrupts her. 

“ Oh ! yes I know — you want to abuse me, but what 
good will that do ? I only want to do you good. And 
now, Nora have you ever thought of how he goes on ? 
Does he love you — or does he love that little snake, Mrs. 
Yancourt? He is a poor man, and an idle man, and 
Eldon Yancourt can keep him in clover all his days. 
Over in Norfolk they say he is engaged to her. Of that I 
know nothing. But — a man like that — what does he 
know of love ? ” 

“ And you— cries Nora, all her misery and de- 
spair merging into her outburst of anger, and swelling 
the torrent. “ What do you know of love ? You — who 
would marry a man just because he could make you 
Lady this or Lady that? Oh! the hatefulness of it! 
You,” clasping her little hands tightly, “you would 
love — you are an enemy to it — because it has never come 
your way ! Well,” her words rushing like a little flame 
from her parted lips, “ you who have married without love 
— are you happy ? ” 

“ Happy ! Well, my dear, I hardly know,” says Mi- 
randa gently. ‘‘ I don’t, indeed. As I have already told 
you, I don’t regret my marriage. That is a great deal to 


244 


NORA CEEINA. 


say.” She looks at Nora, and going to the girl, takes hei 
unwilling hand, and holds it in her own two big, ugly 
ones. “ You see it isn’t as*if I hadn’t done some good by 
marrying Sir Fell. I’ve been a little help to you two 
girls, haven’t I now ? ” 

Nora slowly lifts her eyes. Miranda’s wonderful pa- 
tience has overcome her. The hand that Miranda holds 
now grows passive in her clasp — nay, it even returns the 
warm pressure that it feels. 

“ Well, you agree to that then,” says Miranda. “And 
now I want yf)U to believe that I do nothing except with 
a desire for your good. Nothing at all ! I’m homely I 

know — I’m ” poor Miranda cannot bring herself to 

call herself “ vulgar,” “ a little rough, perhaps, but I mean 
well to you and Sophie. I do really. And I ” 

Here Miranda is brought to a full stop. Two warm, 
repentant arms are round her neck, a soft, repentant 
cheek is lying against hers. 

“ Oh, I was horrid to you,” whispers Nora. “ Horrid ! 
Horrid! I said, Miranda, that you had never known 
what love meant — that no one had ever loved you. 
That was untrue ! Because, Miranda, I — I love you ! ” 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

“ My heart it is cold, as the white winter’s snow, 

My brain is on fire, and my blood’s in a glow.” 

The shaded lamps in the drawing-room are shedding a 
little melancholy light all round. At least to-night it 
seems to be melancholy. All through dinner Nora had 
felt herself to be in extreme disgrace, and now, sitting on 
one of the lounges, with a magazine on her lap, ostensibly 
reading, she can still feel the angry eyes of Sir Fell fixed 
on her. He is standing on the hearthrug, under the mis- 
taken impression, no doubt, that there is a fire behind 
him, brooding over his wrongs. 

Miranda, at a little table, is pouring out tea. The 
good, rough creature is feeling sad. To let Nora, whom 
she loves, marry a worthless fellow like Ferris, seems so 
impossible a thing to her practical mind, that she has 


NOBA CBEINA. 


245 


laid herself out to prevent it. This is in itself a worry, 
but that Sir Fell should torment, and scold and harass 
the poor child in between, is intolerable to her. There 
had been moments during the past dinner, when she 
could have pulverized Sir Fell with pleasure. 

“ Nora,” says she abruptly now, with a view to taking 
notice of the disgraced Nora, and bringing her into the 
pale of friendship once more. ‘‘ Give this cup to Sir Fell.” 

Nora rises nervously. Her book falls to the ground. 
She takes the cup from Miranda’s kindly hand with 
downcast lids, failing therefore to see the glance of en- 
couragement directed at her, and carries the cup, with 
shaking hand, to Sir Fell. 

Will he refuse to accept it from her? So frightened is 
poor Nora that, taking up a little gypsey stool she meets 
on her way, she carries it to the hearthrug, and laying it 
down at Sir Fejl’s feet, places the cup upon it. 

“ Your tea ! ” says she faintly. 

Sir Fell frowns on her. 

“ Shall I — shall I put it on the chimney-piece ? ” asks 
she, hardly knowing how to conclude this painful inter- 
lude. 

“ No — do nothing ! ” says Sir Fell harshly. He takes 
an angry step forward as he speaks. His toe catches in 
the gypsey stool, and away goes stool, exquisite Chelsea 
tea cup, and all. 

The cup is smashed to atoms. 

“ What the devil do you mean by putting a valuable 
cup on that three-legged stool?” exclaims he. “Was 
there no other place for it ? ’Pon my soul, I believe you 
do it on purpose! Do you know what those cups are 
worth ? Now that you’ve broken it, I hope you are going 
to replace it.” 

“Broke it! who broke it?” says Miranda, who has 
witnessed the transaction. “ My good man, don’t abuse 
Nora because you are sorry that you have smashed a 
Chelsea cup. That’s unfair, if you like.” 

“ ‘ My good man ! ’ ” Sir Fell turns an annihilating 
glance upon his new wife. To be called “ good man ” — 
how hideously vulgar ! 

“ No one has abused yo?/,” says Miranda. “ Yet it was 
you who broke it ; it was all your fault. If you had not 
been in such a bad temper all the evening, you would not 


246 


NORA C REIN A. 


probably have upset that stool, and your precious Chelsea 
cup might still be an object of reverence.” She laughs 
most irreverently as she says this. 

“ Be silent, Miranda ! ” roars Sir Fell. 

u Why should I be silent?” demands Miranda; who 
seems to swell in her chair, as she puts the question. To 
Nora’s frightened eyes she appears at this moment the 
biggest woman in the world. She has dared to defy Sir 
Fell! “Who is there that shall compel the silence of 
any one ? I acknowledge no superior when I feel myself 
in the right.” 

“ I am in the right here — so far as I can see,” says Sir 
Fell, with a weak attempt at maintaining his authority. 

“ Your sight seems limited,” says Miranda. “ Have 
another cup of tea? The last seems to have been im- 
bibed by the carpet.” 

“ Now, once for all ” begins Sir Fell furiously. 

“ You’re always saying that,” says Miranda. “ I won- 
der you don’t get tired of it. Y’m dead tired of it. Let 
it be ‘last for all’ this time, like a good creature. You 
ought to know by this time, Anketell, that the high trag- 
edy dodge doesn’t go down with me. And, for one 
thing, I won’t have Nora badgered.” 

“ High tragedy dodge ! ” “Badgered ! ” 

Sir Fell sinks back in his chair, and shudders visibly. 
Great Heavens ! and he is married to this woman — and 
(supreme regret) without power to touch a penny of her 
money — without a chance of being able to make ducks and 
drakes of her fortune ! 

Miranda has noted the shudder — and for once takes 
umbrage. 

“If you’ve got the ague,” says she, “you’d better go to 
bed, and put on a mustard plaster. Mustard is good for 
the temper, and all other diseases.” 

“I shall certainly go to the library, where I must 
request that I shall be left in peace,” says Sir Fell, rising 
and marching to the door with much solemnity. As he 
opens it, a clock outside strikes nine. 

^ # 

It is a heavenly night. Through the mullioned window 
of the great staircase broad beams of moonlight pour — 
flooding the stone steps, and lighting up the handsome 
ball below. 


NORA CREINA, 


247 


Nora, with a light crimson cloak flung round her, but 
\s ith her head bare, pauses on the staircase to comment 
on the beauty of it. 

“What a night,” whispers she. “Like day; so clear, 
but how much lovelier ! Look at the sky, Sophie — cloud- 
less — serene — perfect ! ” 

“ Oh, do go on ! ” says Sophie, a trifle impatiently. “ If 
you will go out to-night, to meet Cyril, let us get it over 
as quickly as possible. It is quite fifteen minutes since 
we left the drawing-room, and we must get back by ten,” 

“Yes — yes, of course!” says Nora. And then, with 
unconscious contradiction — “ But why?” 

“ For one thing, because it will be late.” 

“ How can it ever be late, when night is turned into 
day?” says Nora dreamily, looking through the staircase 
window to the brilliantly lit garden outside. 

“ Don’t be an ass ! ” says Sophie, who is certainly a 
little — well, a ver^ little — at times. “ What has a good 
moonlight night to do with les convenances ? You’ve got to 
be home, my good child, in three-quarters of an hour from 
this, or somebody is sure to want to know the reason why. 
So quick ! march ! ” 

At this moment a door on the corridor above is thrown 
open. A little, spasmodic shiver runs through the girls. 
Can it be Sir Fell ? Nora instinctively presses close to 
the wall behind her, in the mad hope that it will shelter 
her in its shadow ; but the pale, silver, search-light of the 
moon, she has been but just now applauding, reveals her 
slim figure to the eye of all. Ungrateful moon. 

“You, Nora! ’’.says Miranda advancing. The light 
from the lamp above shines on her broad features, as she 
advances. “ You.” She goes down the first two or three 
steps, then advances towards the shrinking girl, and 
presently laying a strong, firm hand upon her shoulder, 
draws her into the wider light. “ And with that cloak,” 
says she. “ Where are you going?” 

“ I was going out,” says Nora. 

“ And I was going too,” says Sophie quickly, loyally. 
Miranda had of course seen Sophie, but she had grasped 
at once the fact that it was Nora who was going out, not 
Sophie. 

“Yes,” says she calmly, addressing Nora only, “I can 
^ee that. And— for what ? ” 


248 


NOB A C REIN A. 


“ To meet Cyril Ferris,” says Nora, suddenly — defiantly. 

“ All ! ” says Miranda. She draws in her breath. Then 
she says slowly, looking always, only at Nora — ‘‘You 
should not have done this, Nora — you might have trusted 
me ! ” 

She takes the girl’s hand in hers, and with a command- 
ing glance at Sophie, who for once in her life is cowed — 
who is perhaps glad to be cowed — she moves as if to draw 
Nora up the stairs. Feeling the girl resist her, she 
stops. 

“ It is for a momeht — a moment only,” says she.* “ I 
want to say something to you. After that — you can 


Nora follows her. 

She throws open the door of her room, and Nora enters 
it, Sophie following. Nora is openly rebellious ; Sophie 
expectant. Sophie indeed is more than that — she is 
hopeful. “After all,” she says to herself, “Miranda is 
{/reat. Who knows what she may not be able to do ? 
^nd there is one thing sure, that she likes Nora.” 

Meantime JVIiranda, having turned up the lamp, has 
^rned to Nora. 

“ Now what can you except to gain by such an escapade 
as this?” demands she bluntly. 

“ If I can’t see him here, in this house, I have to see 

him elsewhere ” returns Nora, defiant always. Such 

a cruel defiance ? A stand altogether incompatible with 
the sweetness, the natural gaiety of her nature. It makes 
Sophie’s heart ache to see her ! To see the little, gentle, 
tender face trying to harden itself. 

“ Is that so necessary ? ” asks Miranda ; and then, 
after a glance at the anguished face — “ W ell, I suppose 
so. But, good gracious, child, how badly life has dealt 
with you! Why should such precious love as yours be 
given to one who can make so poor a return?” 

“You do not know,” says Nora. 

“Bah ! my dear. It is the commonest type of all. We 
all know him,” says Miranda, coarsely, perhaps, but with 
divine intentions. “Now, come to the point, Nora. You 
love him — you say that he loves you. Well — why don’t 
you marry each other ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t think you ought to speak to her like 
that,” says Sophie miserably. 


NOliA CliEINA. 


240 


‘‘Like what? Do you mean to say that people in 
society dare not ask the girl who belongs to them, who,” 
gently, “ is very dear to them, why she does not marry 
the man she loves ?” 

“There may he reasons,” goes on Sophie, who is nowin 
an agony of sorrow for Nora. 

“There is only one reason,” says Nora, coming forward. 

“He has very little money, and /have none, until ” 

She pauses. It seems terrible to have to confess that 
she cannot be her own mistress for quite five years to 
come. 

“Until when?” asks Miranda straightly. There is so 
much force in her air, that Nora ansAvers her at once. 

“Until I am twenty-five. It is a long time to wait, I 
know, but then I shall have five thousand pounds of my 
own, and that will be a little help to him. I want to 
help him,” quickly, as though to disperse any unpleasant 
thought that might be in her hearer’s mind. 

“ I can quite believe that,” says Miranda slowly. “ But 
there is one thing, Nora, that I think should be at once 
made plain to you. You think — Sophie thinks — all your 
friends, perhaps, have thought up to this — that on your 
twenty-fifth birthday, five thousand pounds will become 
your own property.” 

“Well, well?” It is Sophie who has said this, not 
Nora. Nora is silent, her face as pale as death. 

“Well, that is all wrong! Only this afternoon Sir 
Fell told me the truth about it. Even at twenty-five — if 
you make a marriage of which Sir Fell disapproves — he 
can refuse to give you your fortunes.” 

A dead silence. 

“ That ca?i^t\)e true ! ” says Nora at last in a dull, life- 
less way. 

“ Only too true,” says Miranda. “ Do you believe,” 
with perhaps the first touch of passionate vehemence she 
has ever known in her life, “ that I don’t think the whole 
thing iniquitous? If so, you don’t know me. Justice 
above all things for Miranda Baxter ! I call it right down 
low, the making of a will like that ! But there’s no get- 
ting out of it, girls. I can tell you that.” 

“ He told you a falsehood,” says Nora again. 

“ No, my dear, no. I can read him like a book. It is 
the solemn j immoral truth. And as it stands, Nora— 


250 


NOB A CBEINA, 


how about Cyril Ferris ? How will it affect you and him ? ” 

‘‘I don’t see what difference it can make,” says Nora 
haughtily. 

“No? Don’t you! I wish you wouldn’t take it like 
that,” says Miranda. “ I wish you could see it in its true 
light.” 

“ Its true light? ” 

“Well, Sir Fell will certainly never give consent to 
your marriage with Ferris.” 

“ I don’t care,” says Nora stubbornly — miserably. 

There is a slight pause. Then : 

“ But Ferris might,” says Miranda in a low tone. 

“ Ah ! That is all you know about him,” says Nora, 
loyal to the last, though her very soul seems dying within 
her. That last dance. His open negligence of her, his 
allegiance to Eldon Yancourt — all, all return to her now. 
Yet she will not believe — she will not lower her idol in 
the dust, until — until indeed she sees him lying there, 
untouched by hand of hers. 

“ You say you know him,” says Miranda. “ Will you 
tell him all that I have told you now ? and ask him then 
if he will still hold to his — -engagement with you ? ” 

“Oh! Miranda!” says Sophie impulsively. 

“Well, my dear! What?” demands Miranda, lifting 
stern eyes to Sophie’s. “I daresay I have not been 
brought up in a school like yours ; but I bet mine was the 
purest. Call a spade a spade is my motto ! And what I say 
to Nora is — put her lover to the test. Tell him she must 
come to him without a penny if she comes to him at all, 
and then see what he will say.” 

“Do you think I fear that test?” says Nora. “No. 
No. There is yet time, Sophie. Come — come with me. 
Already,” wrapping her cloak swiftly round her, “ he will 
wonder why I am not there to meet him. Oh,” turning 
to Miranda, “ you doubt him, you despise him — but he 
loves me. This — this turn of fortune that you have told 
me of, will not touch him or me at all. We knew we 
could not marry yet — not yet, when we were both so poor. 
But he has openings of many sorts — he has influential 
friends. He has told me of them — hasn’t he, Sophie ? and 
really this paltry five thousand pounds of mine did not 
come into our calculations at all. Why ” — throwing out 
her right hand in a little explanatory way — “ it could not 


NOBA CBEmA. 


S51 


enter into them, because he has often said we should be 
married next year or the year after, and that would be well 
within the five years that must elapse before I get my very 
small — stnall fortune ! Do you see ? ” 

“Yes. I see,” says Miranda, with deep meaning. 
Meaning thrown away ! 

“ Come. Come, Sophie ! ” says Nora presently, going 
towards the door. 

“ But now, Nora ? Now, darling ? — it is late so very 
late.” 

“ Let her go,” says Miranda. “ I shall go with her. 
You and I, Sophie, can surely so arrange as to stay near 
her, during her interview.” 

“Yes. Yes. But hurry — hurry \" says Nora vehe- 
mently. She has gone to the door. “ I shall be late, and 
I must see him now ! ” She passes out into the corridor. 

Miranda throws a costly fur-lined cloak round her. 

“ Come then ! ” says she. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

“ Too soon the blessed springs of love 
To bitter fountains turn, 

And deserts drink the stream that glows 
From hope’s exbaustless urn.” 

The soft night sky is dotted with shining stars — every 
now and then there is a swift rushing of one across the 
heavens, that leaves for an instant a trail of delicate lire 
behind it. 

The silence is almost deathlike ; so strange, so perfect 
is it that the flowing of the river far away can be dis- 
tinctly heard, and is felt to be a relief to the listening ear. 

Nora, who has run down the brilliantly lit walk that 
leads to her trysting-place (leaving Miranda and Sophie 
to wait for her upon a garden seat), pauses suddenly as if 
struck by this great quiet. It seems to her that it is only 
her heart — her heart alone — that is beating in all this 
strange silent world. 

She stands, looking vaguely round her — a little white 
flgure in the exquisite dinner-gown (Miranda may be al- 
most said to have given each girl a trousseau), backed by 


NOUA CUEinA, 


252 

a greenery, tall, soft, majestic, in this trembling light. 
Nervously her hands clasp each other — she looks heaven- 
ward — the perfect beauty of the perfect hour sinks into 
her — steeping her soul in the fragrance. 

Yet how still — how still it all is. Pier heart is begin- 
ning to beat with haste now Oh ! for some sound of 

life ! It comes ! 

A sudden sharp whirr through the air — a soft, sweet, 
wild cry. It is a bird — flying, flying — where? And at 
this hour? Who can tell? Its sad note strikes upon 
Nora’s heart a most desolate note, and yet with long- 

ing in it — a fierce longing. 

“ Oh ! what wailing sadness 
That no tongue may tell, 

What enraptured gladness 
In those wild notes dwell — 

Bliss and anguish both — divine, ineffable.” 

Nora had been praying unconsciously for sound — for 
some break upon the strange silence that had seemed to 
envelop her — yet now it has come it frightens her. Like 
a little swallow she darts down the pathway, only pausing 
to take breath when she arrives upon the bridge. 

There at the far corner is a figure — dark — unrecog- 
nizable beneath the shadows cast upon it by the clinging 
ivy that hangs upon the wall. 

This figure, disengaging itself from the shadows, comes 
forward. 

u Three-quarters of an hour late,” says Ferris. ‘‘ A short 
time for a woman, no doubt.” The would-be pleasantry of 
his manner is drowned in the surliness of his tone. 

‘‘ I couldn’t help it,” says Nora, running to him. “ It is 
you, Cyril, is it not ? Something kept me. Miranda of 
all people.” 

“ Lady Anketell ? Does she know — suspect ? ” — asks he 
with a sudden vigor, that evidently arises from fear. He 
asks the question with the girl’s small loving hands in 
his. 

“Well — she found out. I don’t know how — but she 
does know that you love me ! ” There is the sweetest be- 
lief in him, in these words. A belief that would have 
softened the heart of almost any man. 

Ferris makes an impatient gesture. 

“ You have not explained yourself,” says he. “ You say 


2^onA cuEmA, 


25S 


that Lady Anketell knows of^ — of our friendship. But 
there is something more surely — she objects to your meet- 
ing me then ? ” 

‘‘ Yes. Oh, yes,” says Nora, draAving her breath quickly. 
“ And now more than ever.” 

“Noav?” 

“ Now that Mr. Carnegie has told Sir Fell that he wants 
to marry me ! ” 

“ Carnegie ! ” for a moment a very madness of jealous 
rage attacks Ferris. Carnegie — rich — an heir to an Earl- 
dom ! — Already he sees this small, sweet girl, with her love- 
ly loving eyes, now resting upon his, within Carnegie’s arms. 
And it is he — he himself who is thrusting her into them. 
Yet he has only to hold back now, to renounce Eldon Yan- 
court and all her works, aiid Carnegie will go wifeless for- 
ever, so far as Nora is concerned ! To hold back. That 
would be renunciation on his part — that would mean giv- 
ing up all the fleshpots of Egyi^t for the mere delight of 
love! Love! that rarest — barest, thing! 

‘‘ So that is what has kept you,” says he, coldly. “ So 
they want to marryyou to Carnegie! They have wisdom. 
No doubt they will inculcate you with it.” 

“You must not talk to me like that,” says the girl 
earnestly, with a little touch of dignity. “ Not even in jest ! 
Mr. Carnegie, as you know, is nothing to me. There is no 
one in all the wide world who is anything to me, but you 
alone. You know that too, Cyril, don’t you?” 

“lie has money,” gloomily. He does not respond to 
her eager question, save in part. There is no eagei'iiess in 
his reply. That first mad jealous wave has died aAvay, and 
there is now left only cold calculation. In this small in- 
terim he has even had time to think that he may use Car- 
negie as a lever for the accomplishing of the purpose that 
has brought him here to-night — the breaking of a tender 
heart. 

All at once he has decided ! It is done. It is over. 
When he had promised Mrs. Yancourt last night to have 
finished finally with Nora, he had felt a sense of revolt,but 
he had Avorked doAvn that sense all night, and now is pre- 
pared to offer up anything, the best, the dearest, the truest 
thing the Avorkl can afford, upon the altar of his OAvn ag- 
grandizement. 

“ Money ! ” there is a note of terror in the voice now— 


254 


NOnA CiiElNA. 


She remembers the test — ^the mission on which she has 
come. Miranda is waiting to hear the result of that 
test. “Money could not affect you and me,” says she, her 
voice a little faint. 

“ Money rules the world,” says he. 

“But not you — not me ! ” says she again. 

She stands back from him ; her hands fall to her sides. 
Her eyes devour his face. Such eyes! she has grown 
suddenly, dreadfully white. She knows that now — ?iow 
she must speak. She must tell him that if ever he mar- 
ries her, it will be without Sir Fell’s consent — and there- 
fore without a penny. 

She draws a quick breath. She throws up her head, as 
if indeed demanding more air. Had she dared to analyze 
her feelings at this moment, she would have known that 
distrust of this one being whom in all the world she loves 
best, is at the seat of her agitation. How will he take it 
— how ? 

She is trembling. She moves a little to one side, and a 
brilliant gleam of moonlight, falling on her, shows her in 
all her beauty to Ferris. Perhaps never has she looked so 
lovely as at this moment, when despair is at her heart and 
hope lies dying. 

“ I seem to have many things to tell to-night,” says she, 
her voice, low, tremulous, but clear. She tries to smile, 
but the effort is a failure. “ Miranda told me — told Sophie 
and me — that — even when we are of age, according to my 
mother’s will, we shall still have no right to our fortunes, 
unless Sir Fell approves of — of the people we marry.” 

There is a dead silence. Her large pathetic eyes are 
fixed on his. Will he never speak ? 

“It — it is dreadful for us — isn’t it?” says she at 
last. 

“ A strange will ! ” returns he. He does not look at her 
as he makes this bald remark. Something strange has 
crept into the e5q)ression of his face. His eyes — shifty, 
uncertain — look anywhere, except at her. 

“ Well — ^but,” says she rapidly, “ it doesn’t really matter 
so much, does it ? It was so little. It need not matter — 
need it ? ” 

“ It is a will not to be disputed evidently. And — it 
need not be disputed either, that Sir Fell would not wel- 
come me as a husband for you.” 


mnA cBEmA. 


255 


‘‘N'o — No ! ” she is trying to keep calm. 

“ Sir Fell will not countenance me in that light,” says 
the young man carefully. He has been very careful all 
through — “ you acknowledge that.” 

“ Yes.” She has brought both her hands together ; she 
is still telling herself that she must — she will be quiet. 

‘‘Ah ! You begin to see it ! I knew you would. That 
is your charm! You are so reasonable. It comes to this 
Nora, that if I were to let you marry me, I should only 
think of myself ever afterwards as one who had done you 

an injury. “ I No. No. We must not go into it I 

But you will understand that it is for your sake, 
Nora ” 

“ Don’t ! ” She has thrown out her hands. She holds 
them out so, for some seconds, as though misery has frozen 
them to their tragical position. Then she lets them fall. 

“ Don’t. Don’t,” says she. There is cruel passion in her 
voice ! He has sounded for her her death knell ! 

She had told herself, when Miranda put her to it, that 
it would be easy to tell him. Yet she had not found the 
telling easy. That he should know at once seemed imper- 
ative. She had indeed rushed upon her fate. With her, 
having gone so far, it would be impossible to stop short — 
she should^ she must go on, till all had been said. She is 
of those who, having once begun cannot rest until they 
have reached the end. 

The end is now. After her one wild abandonment to 
the passion that is consuming her, she grows quite calm 
again ; “ quiet ” as she calls it, and looks at him in a sep- 
arated sort of way as if he were there, and she here ! Her 
heart feels numbed, dead. She feels indeed even indiffer- 
ent ; so far indifferent, that she is generous enough to 
help him a little out of his cul-de-sac. 

“ Money, as you say, rules the world,” says she in a sin- 
gularly even — singularly dull tone. Even to Ferris this 
tone is a revelation. Where has the music of the old tone 
gone? 

He feels no sorrow for that lost sweetness, however. An 
ungenerous anger against her fills his breast. He had 
meant to play the hypocrite successfully in this little seine 
de theatre — he had quite intended to pose as the injured, 
sorrowful, rejected lover ! He had quite hoped to see the 
curtain come down with an audience (cl seiil) pitying him 


256 


NOUA CBEINA. 


alone ; but the girl’s wild, passionate, unconsciously insult- 
ing scattered all those hopes. She under- 

stood him! she knew, lie could not forgive her because 
she understood him too well — and knew him too well — al- 
ways unconsciously — to her own sorrowing. 

“ As I say,” he repeats her words. “ There is truth in 
them ! Money does rule the world — I expect it will have 
to rule you and me.” 

“ That was not how you used to speak,” says she. “ I 

— ^you remember ” she stops suddenly. “ Ah ! How / 

remember! As for you — do you ever remember anything?” 
asks she with quick tragical eyes, and an intonation that 
should have melted him. But he who desires gold, above 
love, is dead to all things ! 

“ What am I to remember ?” 

“ Nothing now. It was such a little thing, and you 
knew nothing of it, only what I once overheard you say- 
ing.” 

“ Well, what was it ? ” 

Oh ! it is scarcely worth recalling now. It was about 
love — that you thought love the best of all. You said 
money was nothing, or something like that. It was a 
long, long time ago in the very beginning of this summer : 
You and Denis came into the orchard. And Sophie and 
I were up in an apple tree. And we were ashamed to 
come down, because — well it was I who was ashamed, my 
dress was so very shabby. And you and Denis stood be- 
neath the apple tree and talked and talked — we thought 
you would never go away. Oh ! how it all comes back — ” 
with a curiously acute touch of anguish, “ and it was then 
you said that love was all things to you. I don’t remem- 
ber more — ^but what you said meant that! You said 
money was nothing. Nothing at all.” 

‘^Ah! I remember,” says he. He pauses, and then 
goes on deliberately, “I called it dross, didn’t I? I,” 
with distinct brutality, ‘‘ said that to please you ! ” 

“ You — you,” she stops as if choking. ‘‘You — said that 

■ — ^you ” she recoils from him. A terrible light is making 

her large eyes brilliant. “ You hiew that I was up there 
in that tree, all the time ? ” 

“ As well as you knew that I was beneath,” returns 
he. 

“What do you mean?” says she, slowly. “You can’t 


Non A cnmNA. 


257 


know what you are saying. I was there ; true. And I 
saw you. But you would insinuate that I deliberately lis- 
tened to you. That I stayed quite on purpose to hear you. 
Oh! thati^ not true, that is not true,” cries she clasping her 
hands very gently, very tightly together. “ I stayed,” with 
terribly simj)le pathos, “ because of my frock. It was torn. 
I could not bear you to see it. Oh ! that frock ! ” She raises 
her hands suddenly and presses them against her eyes. 

‘‘ If I had not thought so much of it — If That frock 

has made the tragedy of my life,” says she. “ It made 
me believe in you ; often — often when I should have dis- 
trusted you, I thought of those words of yours, spoken on 
the day that frock was torn.” 

She breaks out suddenly into a most miserable little 
laugh. 

“ One could make a little tract — a delectable little Sun- 
day-school story about it,” cries she. “ One might point 
their moral with that vanity of mine. If I had not been 
ashamed to meet you in an old, old gown, I should not 
have had so much to go on — so much more to believe in. 
What a fool, what a fool I have been ! And yet even then 
I must have known. Was it my gown or was it me you 
loved ? ” She pauses. “ Well — Mrs. Vancourt will always 
have pretty gowns,” says she. 

“You can of course insult me if you like,” mutters he, 
very pale. This last stab has touched him. Eldon Van- 
court’s gowns could only be purchased by one who had 
money. Her money and her gowns seem inseparable. 
Has she only gowns and money ! 

“ Insult — insult you ! ” cries Kora. “ Could I insult 
you ? And you ? How have you insulted me ? What 
have you accused me of ? The basest of all things ! You 
would make me such a one as yourself. You ! who stood 
beneath that tree, and pretended to talk only for the bene- 
fit of your companion, of the sky, the earth, the air, any- 
thing, but for mine ! Oh ! the coimrdice of it ! ” 

He makes a movement as if stung! 

“You cannot deny it; you said all that — only that 
I might hear ?” cries she, now roused to such passionate 
despair and indignation, that she feels no pity for him. So 
open, indeed — so scornful is her condemnation of him that 
anger rising in his breast gives him new strength. 

“Well? why not?” 


17 


260 


NORA CllEINA. 


low her up. She is lost — lost to him forever. And what 
had her last words meant ? What did they contain ? A 
blessing ? 

If so, they had failed in their purpose. Ferris strides 
back to Saggartmore slowly, heavily — as though a curse 
lies heavy at his heart. 


CHAPTER XLVl. 

“ He is gone ! He is gone ! 

And I wander alone, 

By the stream where so oft 
He hath called me ‘ his own,’ 

But his vows are forgot. 

And my eyes are grown dim 
With the tears I have wept 
For the falsehood of him.” 

As she emerges out of the gloom, Sophie meets her 
alone. Sophie, who had been watching her approach, and 
who, seeing her, had told Miranda in an impassioned 
manner to go home — to go anywhere — at all events to 
elface herself for the present ; whereupon Miranda — that 
good creature — had turned back to the house as swiftly 
as her superfluous flesh would allow her, leaving the 
sisters to meet each other without a witness. Miranda 
had known consolation during her solitary walk back to 
the house. She knew that her cause was won. She was 
sorry and glad about Xora in a breath. 

‘‘It is you, darling?” says Sophie, going forward and 
looking at Xora. She would willingly have encircled her 
with her arms, but something in Nora’s face forbids her. 

“It is all over!” says Nora, calmly — quietly. “Mi- 
randa was right. He wants money. Money only. He 
will marry Mrs. Yancourt.” 

“Mrs. Yancourt?” Sophie’s voice is almost lost in a 
stammer. She looks helplessly at her sister, quite broken 
with grief at the sight of that sister’s face ! Oh ! the in- 
consistencies of the delightful human heart. Here Sophie, 
who for months has been longing to hear of Nora’s flnal 
rupture with Ferris, now that the rupture is as complete 
as her heart can desire, is ready to faint with grief and ^ 
regret. 


NOBA CBEINA. 


2G1 


Nora’s pale, desperate little face — so dreadfully calm, 
so determinedly expressionless — creates such a pain in 
Sophie’s honest breast, that now she declares to herself 
she would gladly hear that Nora’s test had resulted in an 
even stronger tie between her and Ferris. 

“There has been a little quarrel — a little misunder- 
standing — nothing more?” questions she, stammering 
worse now, and feeling more wretched than she ever was 
before in her life. “ To-morrow it will be different. You 
and he ” 

“ There will be no to-morrow ! It is all over — all at an 

end. I am nothing to Cyril any more — nor he to 1 

hope I shall not see him again ! . . . Well — you are glad. 
But I ” 

“Nora! glad! Oh! darling Noll, what a thing to say 
to me ! ” 

“ Not now — not now, but you will be glad to-morrow ! 

How that to-morrow crops up ! I wish — I mean How 

tiresome that to-morrow is; it gives one a sense of 
fatigue. Always going on whether one wants it or not. 
1 don’t want it ! ” She is speaking almost petulantly, but 
apparently with no great feeling — only one who loved her 
and knew her — only Sophie, could read between the lines 
and see that she is broken-hearted. The brave true spirit 
in that little fragile body would have upheld her before 
all the world, would have carried her, smiling, through 
the fire — the torture. 

“ I am not glad,” cries poor Sophie, miserably. “ Oh ! 
Nora — do you think I feel nothing — that I do not suffer 
with you ? As if I would not give my life for you.” She 
utters this little exaggeration with genuine intonation. 

“ Your life ! ” repeats Nora ; she looks at her suddenly. 
Her pale haggard face grows infused with meaning. 
“ Give me she says, sharply. 

“Help?” 

“ Yes. The best help of all. I must put an end to all 
this, and at once ! You must arrange it,” she lays her 
hand upon her sister’s arm. “ You said that Mr. Carnegie 
had spoken to you about me — that he loved me ? ” 

“ Oh, Nora ! Not that ! Are you mad, darling, to sac- 
rifice your life like that? No, I shall have nothing to do 
with it.” 

“And yet you said you would give me your life?” 


2G2 


NORA CliEINA. 


‘‘ Ah, but this is your life ! ” 

“ He has spoken to Sir Fell also. I know that,” goes 
on Nora, taking no heed of her interruption, ‘‘ he wants 
to marry me.” 

“Yes. Yes, darling. But don’t think about that now.” 
Sophie is sobbing. “ Come in, Nora.” She tries to put 
her arms round her, but Nora repulses her. 

“ It is what I must think about. I shall marry him — 
now — at once. Oh,” vehemently, “ I wish I could marry 
him this moment. That would hurt him.” 

“ Him ? Mr. Carnegie ? ” 

Nora bursts into low, but wild laughter. 

“ Oh, yes, it will hurt him too,” says she, recklessly. 
“ It will hurt us all. But I wasn’t thinking of Mr. Car- 
negie. Come — if you can’t understand anything else, 
Sophie, do try to take into your head the fact that I wish 
to be married to your cano date — the family candidate.” 
There is a mockery — a cruei carelessness in her tone that 
frightens Sophie, yet restores her to a keen sense of what 
is going on. 

“ If you have so arranged,” says she, “ I am glad for 
your own sake. He is good — he is true.” 

“I don’t care what he is,” says Nora, recklessly. “ If 
he were the incarnation of all the vices, and wanted to 
marry me, I should say yes, to him now. You will go to 
Sir Fell to-morrow ” 

“ But Nora ” 

“ Listen to me,” she stamjDS her foot upon the ground, 
reducing Sophie to silence. “You will go to Sir Fell to- 
morrow morning, and tell him I have repented in sack- 
cloth and ashes about my refusal to marry your candi- 
date,” with a bitter little laugh, “ this morning. You will 
say, I shall marry him now, with pleasure. That,” 
laughing again, “ I have seen the iniquity of my ways, 
and am willing to marry any man who is kind enough to 
want to marry me. What are you crying about ? ” 

“ About you,” says Sophie, mopping her eyes. 

“About nothing then. You will end your days in 
Colney Hatch if you go on like that. Now you have 
heard — you know what to do.” 

“ Oh, Nolly ! Don’t do that. Thmk, darling. Do 
think.” 

“What folly you talk,” says Nora, smiling — coldly, 


jyOBA CliEINA. 


263 


absently. “ What am I ever doing but thinking, think- 
ing, thinking? You understand, Sophie? If Mr. Car- 
negie comes down to see Sir Fell to-morrow — as I know 
he will do — Sir Fell is to tell him that I am now ready 
to be his wife at any moment. The nearest moment 
the better.” 

“ But Nora, darling, if — if Cyril were to tell you that 
he still loved you ” 

Nora, catching her arms, flings her from her. The 
beautiful, gentle, gracious face is transflgured. 

“Will you drive me cries she. 

She stumbles — sways forward a little 

***** 

“ She is better now. She is all right. She still sleeps,” 
says Miranda, bending down to look more closely into 
Nora’s face. 

The lids are closed, the long, dark lashes are lying on 
Nora’s snow-white cheeks — from the troubled bosom soft 
breathings rise and fall. A most merciful oblivion has 
at last caught and held her. 

Miranda, who had loitered about the shrubberies, feel- 
ing a little nervous — a little uncertain, on her parting 
with Sophie — a little anxious too, to learn how matters 
had gone with Nora — had been startled from her musings 
in the laurel path by a quick cry. 

It had brought her to Sophie at once — to And Sophie 
holding Nora’s insensible form to her heart. Together, 
she and Sophie had carried Nora by a side-door to the 
poor child’s room, and laid her on her bed. 

She had been in a heavy faint, but now it is over and 
she is sleeping peacefully, the sleep of utter exhaustion. 
They are now congratulating themselves on the fact that 
no one had heard them bring in the poor little lovely 
thing from the shrubberies to the house. 

“Yes. She is sleeping,” says Sophie, who is looking 
nearly as white as the prone flgure in the bed — “ Oh, 
Miranda ! ” 

“ The test didn’t wear ? ” asks Miranda with prophetic 
insight. 

“ He has given her up,” says Sophie plainly, to whom 
the Delphic business is unknown. 

“ Hah ! I guessed at him. And so my guess has come 
true ? ” 


264 


NOBA CBEINA, 


‘‘ Too true ! ” 

“ I was right then ? ” 

‘‘ Yes ! ” Sophie pauses, and then bursts out, “ I wish 
you had not been so right,” cries she. “ I wish you had 
been wrong.” 

‘‘Why wrong? I thought you took my view of it?” 

They have withdrawn into an ante-room. 

“ Oh, to see her ! ” cries Sophie, wringing her hands. 

“ I have seen her.” 

“ But not then — not when she first left him. You — you 
would not have known her. Her little face all drawn 
and pale. Oh, my pretty girl! We should not have left 
her, Miranda, we should not indeed. We drove her to 
extremities — and him too.” 

“ Don’t bother about him at all events,” says Miranda, 
drily. 

“Yes, I know what you mean. I don’t think him 
worthy — I don’t care for him, but if we had not interfered 
— if we had not forced on that last interview between 
them, he might still have continued true to her. She is 
so sweet, so beautiful ! I don’t see how any one could be 
false — or unkind to her.” 

“ Don’t you ? ” says Miranda, contemptuously. It is a 
kind contempt, however. “You don’t know anything 
about men,” says she. “ How could you ? Tve studied 
them, and, as far as I can judge, they are the poorest lot 
alive.” 

“ Then you can’t see says Sophie, whose thoughts 
have flown, for the first time for hours, from Nora. They 
have flown to Denis ! Her tone is wrathful in the ex- 
treme. “ I can tell you that ” 

“Well, well, well!” interrupts Miranda broadly, “we 
need not fight on that score.” She smiles, leaning forward 
and looming huge through the dim lamplight. “ Of course 
I know Denis is a point of honor with you. But as a 
rule I say that men are worthless, faithless. They don’t 
think long, and then think mostly for themselves.” 

“ And women ? ” 

“ As a rule, too, they are faithless. There is not much 
to choose between them. It is human nature. There, 
don’t fight me again. I am not talking of you or of Nora, 
only I will say, that if men get over their love affairs in 
double-quick time — girls get over theirs — in time too.” 


NORA CREINA. 


265 


“ How do you know that ? ” asks Sophie, who is feeling 
a sense of indignation. ‘‘ Have you got over yours ? ” 

“ Me ? Law, no !N says Miranda, who looks inclined to 
laugh. ‘‘ The fact is, Sophie, I was never in love in my 
life with any one, and certainly no one was ever in love 
with me.” 

‘‘ You don’t look like that,” says Sophie suddenly, see- 
ing all at once, as if in a revelation, the tenderness, the 
capacity for loving, that lies in the big, broad, heavy, 
kindly face before her. “ You look as if you could love- 
something ! ” 

“You’re right there,” says Miranda. “ I could, but I 
can’t ! I could have loved a child — my own child. That 
has always seemed to me the only love worth a woman’s 
having ; well, I shan’t know that love, I suppose ! ” . She 
sighs — but immediately afterwards draws Sophie to her 
and kisses her. “ Meantime, I have you two girls,” says 
she. “ And I love you — I do indeed. I am going to do 
all I can for you ! ” 

“ Oh ! Miranda ! I wish you could do something for 
Nolly.” 

“ Time. Time will do that ! And Time is working 
now. Believe me,” says Miranda, “ that the best day she 
ever saw is this day on which she has got rid of Ferris ! ” 

“ I think that too,” says Sophie, nervously. “ It seems 
heartless to say it when she is so unhappy, but it is true.” 

“Just one wrench, and then she will know liberty again. 
And I will help her,” says Miranda. “ You may trust me. 
You are my children, you know. I have adopted you.” 

“ Until you have some of your own,” says Sophie, smil- 
ing kindly, if a little sadly. 

“Ah ! no, no ! ” Miranda stops short, and pushes back 
her hair. “ One has money, but one has not happiness,” 
says she. “ Sometimes, do you know, Sophie, I envy the 
peasant women when I see them with their little, half- 
naked babies tumbling about their feet. All my thou- 
sands cannot give me the bliss that they must feel.” 


m 


NOBA CBEINA, 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

“ But why arose a morrow, 

Annie dear ? 

Upon that night of sorrow, 

Annie dear ? ” 

‘‘ You are better, darling ?” asks Sophie, stopping short 
on her tiptoed advance into Nora’s bedroom, as she sees 
Nora’s eyes wide open, looking at her. 

“ I am quite well,” says Nora. There is a certain hard- 
ness in her tone. 

“ But still, lie quiet — lie quiet,” says Sophie, entreatingly. 
She had stolen in on tiptoe (as has been said) with a huge 
lump of coal wrapped up in a newspaper in her hands, 
fearful lest if a servant entered, she might rouse Nora 
from her sleep. It is very early still — ^barely seven o’clock, 
and Sophie, who had been in and out of her sister’s room 
all night, had feared that the fire was growing low. Mir- 
anda had said that Nora should be kept warm, and now 
that the autumn is upon us, it has seemed wise to light a 
fire in her room. 

“Oh! quiet, quiet,” says Nora impatiently. “What 
have you got there ? ” 

“ A lump of coal ! ” 

“ Coal ? ” fretfully. “ If that fire doesn’t go out soon, 
I shall die. I am burning. Feel me,” holding out a most 
perfect little hand, hot with fever. “ To die ! would that 
be so bad ? ” She laughs. 

“ Very bad indeed ! ” says Sophie severely, planting the 
lump of coal upon the fire with a thud. “ I can’t bear 
you Avhen you talk like that, Nora,” turning an indignant, 
loving face to the bed. “ It is so selfish! If you were to 
die, what would become of me, do you think ? ” 

“You would marry Denis,” says Nora. “ATe would 
pull you through ! ” Her eyes gleam with a curious 
brilliancy in the white oval of her face. They seem the 
only part of her alive. Her pallor is so extreme as 
to suggest the old, yet ever new thought, of death. 
“ Sophie, come here.” 

“ No, you must not talk,” says Sophie. “ Miranda says 
you must be kept very quiet. Now do lie still, Nolly, 


mu A cBEmA. 


m 


heart, and try to get rest and strength. I have ordered 
an early breakfast for you, or rather Miranda did, and it 
will be here in a moment.” 

“ I hate that old dressing-gown you are wearmg,” says 
Nora suddenly. “ What a color! Do you remember, 
Sophie, how I always said lavender meant misery ? Burn 
that thing ! It is I, however, who should have worn it ! 
You — you will not be miserable.” 

There is a thrill of despair in the soft young voice that 
goes to Sophie’s heart. 

“Oh, Nolly, talk to me,” cries she, flinging herself on 
her knees beside the bed. “ Can’t you tell me about it ? 
I know what you feel, that you must bury it up some 
way, but if you didn’t — if you said something ” 

“Well, I can’t,” says Nora, slowly, icily. “ I cayiHtAW, 
I’ve got to do it alone. Don’t add to my burden, Sophie 
— don’t be unhappy about me. I am all right really, only 
wretched. Many people are wretched. Don’t look upon 
me as a singular case — a fresh discovery. Get up, Sophie. 
I want to arrange things with you.” 

Sophie rises to her feet. 

“ What things ? ” 

“ About Mr. Carnegie for one.” She too rises now, and 
sitting up in her bed, propped by the pillows that Sojphie 
presses behind her back, looks at her sister out of bright 
eyes sunk in white, hollow cheeks. “ You say he loves 
me?” 

“Yes, it is true,” says Sophie faintly, her eyes on the 
ground. She, who would have been Carnegie’s staunch- 
est champion a week ago, nay, a night ago, is now unable 
to utter a syllable in his favor. 

“ And that he wants to marry me ? ” 

“Yes,” says Sophie again, in the same seijulchral tone. 

“ Then you will be the one to tell him that I shall marry 
him as soon as ever he likes.” 

“No — I shall not tell him that. I shan’t indeed, Nora, 
and once for all, I \eon!t^'' says Sophie. “ Just consider ! 
you ask me to compel you to marry a man you don’t even 
care for. It is cruel of you, and I shan’t do it.” 

“ You must,” says Nora. 

“Why marry at all ? ” 

“Ah!” Nora’s teeth come down upon her lips. “If 
you won’t tell him, Sir Fell will,” says she ; “ and, at all 


J^OUA CllMNA. 


268 

events, you can tell Sir Fell about my decision. Mr. 
Carnegie is coming here to-day, I know — you must give 
a hint to Sir Fell beforehand. Why, what is the matter 
with you ? ” frowning angrily at Sophie. Only yester- 
day you were angry with me because I vnoidd not marry 
this wonderfully good match you have all arranged for 
me, and now when I want to marry him 

“ Ah ! That is just it. Do you want to marry him ? 
You know you do not! And is it not unkind to him? 
If he does still love you ” 

A sharp exclamation from Xora stops the continuance 
of Sophie’s speech. 

“If,” says she, in alow tone. She starts up, 

as though some awful fear has just occurred to her. 
“ Oh ! if he should have changed his mind ; if he should 
not now wish to marry me! Sophie, Sophie, what should 
I do then ? ” 

“ Nora, do lie down. Do ! Think of yourself.” 

“Oh, I must, I will get engaged to somebody. I don’t 
want to marry any one, Sophie, you understand ” — her 
eyes gleaming with fever. “ But I will not be left for- 
saken. I — I She falls back on her pillows ex- 
hausted. “ I can marry Peter Kinsella at all events,” says 
she, with a laugh that is like a moan ! 

It is a laugh that frightens Sophie. 

“ You shall marry whom you choose,” says she. “Any 
one ! I’ll see to it. I’ll do anything you wish. Tell me 
what you want ! ” 

Nora’s laughter has died as quickly as it began. 

“ Ah ! what I want,” says she. 

She is silent for a long time after this — for so long a 
time, indeed, that Sophie, watching her closed lids, is on 
the point of ringing for Miranda. Then suddenly she 
goes on again. “ I shall never want anything again. I 
have no wants, no wishes, no desires, they are all dead.” 
She rouses herself suddenly as though memory has quick- 
ened in her troubled brain. “ Save one,” she cries. “ I 
have told you — you know it.” 

“ It is not an honest one,” says Sophie mournfully ; “but 
I will help you in it. I shall tell Sir Fell your decision, 
and he will tell — Mr. Carnegie.” 

“Yes, yes, yes,” feverishly. “But — a moment since 
you cast a doubt upon the idea that Mr. Carnegie still 
desires to marry me.” 


KouA cnmj^A, 


269 


“You did. Z didn’t. Nonsense!” says Sophie, with 
spirit. “ As if one couldn’t see that he would propose to 
you every day for a year^ if he thought there was a chance 
of your accepting him on the three hundred and sixty-fifth.” 

Now, though Nora had been so plainly terrified at the 
thought that Carnegie might not prove a constant lover, 
this speech of Sophie’s makes her shrink as though hurt 
by some harmful thing. 

“ Oh ! how I hate him,” says she. And then almost 
immediately, “ I shall get up.” 

“ Not yet, Nora, darling. Don’t be foolish now. Why, 
here comes your breakfast,” as the door opens and a very 
tempting little tray is brought in by a trim maid. “ Here, 
Bridget, put it here — close to Miss Nora. She will stay 
in bed for an hour or so longer — until,” smiling at the 
maid, “ the sun grows warmer.” 

“ A good thing too. Miss,” says Bridget, busying her- 
self with a little table and the tray, and finally with the 
pillows behind Nora’s back. “ An’ are ye betther now. 
Miss Nora ? We heard from Miss Sophie as ye were bad 
enough last night wid yer head, an’ sure thim throuble- 
some bilious attacks is worry to most.” 

“ Ever so much better, Biddy,” says Nora, smiling at her. 

“ Faix, that’ll be good news for the lot of us,” says 
Bridget, tucking her up anew before departing. 

“ I shall get up for all that,” says Nora, springing out of 
bed the moment the door closes behind the faithful 
Bridget. “ I can’t lie still, Sophie — I can’t indeed. Take 
away that tray. Do you think I could eat ? And, Sophie, 
go to Sir Fell — go at once — and tell him what I have 
said. Go at once, I want it all to be finished — finished. 
I want to kill hope even : the hope that has killed me / ” 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 

“ Thy own bright arbutus hath many a cluster 
Of white, flaxen blossoms, like lillies in air. 

But O I thy pale cheek hath a delicate lustre 
No blossoms can rival, no lily doth wear.” 

“ She’s perfectly prostrate, poor little thing,” says 
Miranda. She is sitting in the library, opposite to Sir 


270 


mnA (jumnA, 


Fell, who, standing on the hearthrug, with the tails of 
his coat between his arms, is listening to her with a sour 
countenance. There is, however, beneath the customary 
sourness, a certain sense of triumph, of satisfaction. 

‘‘ PshaAV ! ” says he. “ Prostrate ! When one hears a 
woman is prostrate, one is to understand that she is in 
her bedroom, drinking strong tea, eating buttered cakes 
and generally enjoying herself.” 

“ Nora is not enjoying herself,” says Miranda. “ She’s 
very low — very low indeed. You needn’t make yourself 
more unpleasant than you can help about her.” 

“ I am not aware that I am seeking to make myself un- 
pleasant,” says Sir Fell pompously. ‘‘ But I confess that 
hypocrisy has never had any charms for me.” 

“ Who’s the hypocrite here ? ” asks Miranda. 

“ Scarcely necessary to ask, I should say. It seems to 
me Nora knows pretty well where her interests lie. She 
has very wisely thrown over that impecunious young man 
Ferris, and has decided on marrying Carnegie, who is so 
excellent a partly and who will give her position. 1 
opened her eyes to that yesterday. I spoke very care- 
fully to her. She evidently saw the folly of her ways in 
having anything to do with Ferris, when such a splendid 
offer lay ready for her acceptance. All this is well, I say. 
But that she should pretend grief and despair about it — 
that I acknowlege is, to me, the very rankest hypoc- 
risy.” 

“You don’t understand Nora ! ” says Miranda. “ She’s 
beyond you. I tell you she has given up Ferris only 
because he has given up her — and she is breaking her heart 
over his loss ! ” 

“ Tut ! She takes you in,” says Sir Fell, with a contemp- 
tuous air. “ Permit me to say it is you who are in the dark 
about her. An astuter person I never met than Nora. 
And a most excellent actress into the bargain. All the 
time I was talking to her yesterday, she pretended to 
abhor the notion of marrying Carnegie ; yet here to-day 
you bring me word that she is willing and ready to be 
his wife on the very shortest notice! You should exert 
your brain, Miranda. It wants working. You are too 
easily taken in by that girl.” 

“ Oh! don’t be a fool! ” says Miranda. 

“ A what ? A what f ” demands Sir Fell rising in his 




m 


wrath. “ Do you know, Miranda, to whom you are 
speaking ? ” 

‘‘ I could make a good round guess,” says Miranda. 
‘‘ There ! keep your hair on ! ” 

Sir Fell falls back into the nearest chair. He is evi- 
dently quite overcome. 

“ My hair ! ” gasps he. “ What a woman ! ” 

‘‘ Ha ! ha ! ” Miranda breaks into one of her loud 
astounding laughs, that, as a rule, shake the house. I’ve 
heard of the ejaculation, ‘My hat,’ but never ‘My hair’ 
before ! ” 

“ I don’t follow you ; I,” stiffly, “ seldom follow you.” 

“ So much the better for me,” says she, still laughing 
loudly. “ I’d hate you to dog my footsteps oftener than 
you do. There,” with a fearful geniality, and a slap on 
his shoulder that throws him into the nearest chair, “ I 
knew that would put your back up. But 

“My back?” says he. 

“Oh! Don’t go in for any more ejaculations,” says 
Miranda. “ There isn’t time. What we have to consider 
now is Nora. You tell me Mr. Carnegie is coming here 
to-day about four o’clock. For what ? ” 

“ I don’t know, indeed. Probably to talk over his pro- 
posal to this cunning little person in whom you persist 
in believing.” 

“ Well. You can tell him she is willing to accept him. 
I shouldn’t put it more cheerfully than that if I were you 
— as she is in a terrible state. Not violent, you know — 
but silent — Avhite — the picture of despair ! ’ 

“ For Heaven’s sake ! ” says Sir Fell, rising once more 
to his feet, “ let us be done with all that. The girl is glad, 
thankful to accept him. You must be mad to think other- 
wise.” 

“ And you must be ?ifool to think as you do,” cries Mir- 
anda — for once losing her admirable temper. “ And I tell 
you this — you will ruin the whole affair if you don’t con- 
duct it properly. The slightest chance and she will turn 
restive again. I want her to marry Carnegie, who I firmly 
believe, will do her justice, and make her happy. You 
want to get her off your hands as cheaply as possible.” 

“ Cheaply — cheaply — what has cheapness got to do with 
it?” asks Sir Fell with dignity. 

“Well — he refuses her fortune for one thing!” says 


272 


NOUA cheina. 


Miranda drily. “ There ! Don’t think you can hoodwink 
me — though you believe that poor child can. I know all 
about it. I ” 

“ All about what ? ” Sir Fell raises his hands to his 
head as if bewildered. “ You puzzle — you upset me. I 
hardly know sometimes whether,” plaintively, “I am 
standing on my head or my heels.” 

“ Betber take a looking-glass about with you then ! ” 
says Miranda, flouncing towards the door. One thing 
I warn you of,” looking back at him from the threshold, 
“ Be gentle with that girl, — or — Til settle with you later 
on.” 

* * * * * 

Nora, now that she has entered the room, stands quite 
still near the door. Some one had closed it behind her. 
She never knew who. A film, a vague gray cloud, has 
spread itself before her eyes. It clears away in a moment 
or two ; moments that to her seem hours, and with a 
little, eager desire to get at something that will support 
her — something to which she may cling, she goes quickly 
to the central table, and lays her hand on it. Her very 
soul seems sick within her. She is conscious that Sir 
Fell has been saying something — to her^ presumably — • 
but what, her deaf ears have not heard. Oh ! to be 
dead ! — to be dead ! that is the one sad refrain that re- 
peats itself in her brain. It had been repeating itself all 
last night. 

Suddenly Sir Fell’s voice comes clearly to her ears, 
sounding from a distance as it were, but with hateful 
distinctness. 

‘‘I beg, Nora, that you will collect yourself, and show 
some courtesy to Mr. Carnegie.” 

‘‘Miss Carew is tired — that late dance has still its 
wearying effects,” says Carnegie. 

His voice sounds quite close to her ear, and Nora, with 
a little start, finds he is beside her — and instinct tells 
her, he has been beside her for some time, during which 
her dulled intellect had not perceived him. 

“ Even if fatigued — one can be polite,” says Sir Fell, 
more pompously than ever. “ And especially on an 
occasion such as this. You have already been told, Nora, 
I have no doubt — but permit me to remind you that Mr, 


^OUA CEMNA, 


273 


Carnegie has come here to-day to do you the honor — 

the honor emphasized, “ of asking your hand in ” 

Go ! ” says Carnegie, turning to him quickly, with the 
most amazing rudeness. “Leave us. I should like to 
speak to Miss Carew alone ! ” 

He steps backwards, opens the door, and, with a ges- 
ture that is almost imperious, gives Sir Fell to know that 
he is to pass through it. 

Sir Fell obeys. 

Carnegie, having closed the door behind him, goes back 
to Nora. 

“ He has an unfortunate manner,” says he gently, but 
with a suspicion of agitation. “ Do not let it prejudice 
you against me.” 

He waits as if listening for something from her, but as 
nothing comes he goes on again, her white, lowered face 
inspiring him. 

“You mean it?” 

“ Yes.” 

“Nora! Is that true?” He suppresses, by a violent 
effort, the burst of passion that longs for utterance. “ Is 
it true that you wish to marry me ? ” 

“ It is true.” 

“ But — but that does not coincide with what you said 
to me at the ball at Saggart— You remember what you 
said then?” 

“ I remember.” Her fingers tighten on the table. She 
has not once raised her eyes to his. 

“ Then you refused me ! ” He hesitates, but she does 
not move, she does not raise her eyes. “ Then,” continues 
he, “ you told me to go to Sir Fell, and explain to him, 
that I — could not marry you. I came to-day to do your 
bidding, and — I learn that you have changed your mind, 
and that you are now willing to accept me.” 

He hesitates again— and again no answ^er comes from 
her. Only she grows whiter — whiter. 

“ Have you changed your mind ? ” 

He waits with extraordinary patience — ^but beyond a 
sudden, swift movement — as if to go to the door — as if to 
escape— a movement, however, overcome — no return to 
his question comes to him. 

“ Nora ! Answer me ! ” says he sharply— and with 
authority— “ Do you wish to marry me ? ” 


274 


NOHA CHEINA, 


“Yes — yes!” says the poor child, timidly — “I told 
him. I sent him word. He — must have told you.” 

“And is that all?” says Carnegie. “Am I to he told 
by him only ? Have you no word to give me from your- 
self alone ? Nora ! Only that you are the one woman in 
the world for me — only that I believe you are so young, 
so heart-whole that I may by the very force of my own 
love for you induce you to give me your love in return — 
I should now draw back from a compact that ” 

“ Don’t draw back,” says she. Suddenly, all at once, 
she has found her voice. She is looking at him, with a 
strange, anxious fire in her lovely eyes. “ I want you — 
do7i^t draw back.” 

“You want me?” He comes nearer to her — but she 
waves him from her. 

“ Stay there,” says she, quickly — ^vehemently. “ I must 
explain to you. I like you. I do indeed. • I like you 
very, very much. But ” 

“ Well — go on,” says he, gravely. “You like me very 
much, and I love you! The case stands thus. But, as 
you only like me, why do you want to marry me ? ” 

“Well — because I like you, and because — Oh, no — no 

” She stops suddenly, and bursts into tears ! “ You 

ask — you ask ” sobs she. 

“ Too much ! Don’t cry, Nora ! Don’t — cloiiH cry ! ” 
He takes one of her hands from her face — holds it a 
moment to his lips, and then, suddenly, impulsively, he 
encircles her with his arms. 

With a perfect passion of anger, she shakes herself free, 
and stands back from him; her eyes blazing, her whole 
soul in revolt. 

“ Don’t touch me ! ” says she, violently. 

“ As you will,” says Carnegie, now nearly as white as 
she is. “ May I not speak to you either ? May I not tell 
you that I love you ? ” 

“ Oh, love ! ” says she. “ Love ! Is there such a 
thing?” She recovers herself by a strong effort, and 
compels herself to go on. “Another day — another day 
you shall tell me of it,” says she, faintly. “ I know noth- 
ing of it. Nothing ! ” 

^ * 

There is a long pause. 

“Are you sure of that, Nora?” says he, presently 


NORA CREINA, 


275 


<‘Are you sure that you He hesitates, and 

changes his sentence, “that no one has ever loved you 
Defore ? ” 

“Quite — quite sure! In all the world,” she stands 
up, and looks at him with bright, wild eyes, “ in all the 
world there was never any one so unbeloved as I am.” 

“Nora! am I nothing?” says he, his voice trembling. 
He takes a step towards her. 

“Nothing — nothing!” cries she, fiercely. She falters, 
her arms drop to her sides, she makes a curious attempt 
to cross the room, and fails. 

Carnegie has barely time to catch her in his arms, as 
she falls forward, insensible ! 


CHAPTER XLTX. 

“ How hard is my fortune, 

And vain my repining ; 

The strong rope of fate 

For this young neck is twining.” 

“I’m quite well now, Sophie. I am, indeed.” Nora 
raises herself from the sofa on which she has been lying, 
and gets slowly to her feet. 

“ Oh, but don’t stir. Lie there quietly. Do, now, Nora, 
dearest heart, you can’t think how pale you look still.” 

“ It is only that my head aches ! ” says Nora, pressing 
her hand against her forehead. She smiles, suppressing 
the sigh that is forcing itself to her lips. Her poor heart ! 
How it aches ! 

“That is the very thing! You should not stir. You 

” Sophie pulls up the cushions fussily, and makes little 

dabs at them with her hands, and pats and presses them 
into a beautiful shape, full of comfort. “ You should just 
rest here all the evening, if you won’t go to bed.” 

“ To go to bed now,” says Nora. She glances through 
the open window into the sweetness of the growing dusk. 
Evening is only beginning to encroach upon the day, yet 
already sweet shadows, filled with dewy dreams, are 
lying about in the garden. “ Oh, no ! Bed means misery. 
I should not sleep ; and when,” wearily, “ one does pot 
sleep, one thinks ” 


276 


NORA CREINA, 


“ Poor ducky ! ” says Sophie. 

It is the homeliest, perhaps the silliest of all homely 
expressions, but as Sophie utters it, it is love itself. It 
is so sweetly kind in this instance that Nora’s wounded, 
breaking heart expands beneath it. 

“ Sophie,” says she, ‘‘ tell me ! When you came in, 
how did I look ? ” 

One can see that it almost hurts her to ask this question, 
so vivid is the blush that dyes her face from brow to chin. 

“ Perfectly all right ! ” says Sophie. “ You were lying 
back in the armchair, and positively, for a moment, 1 
couldn’t see that there was anything the matter with you. 
You looked so natural ; so like yourself.” 

“ Ah ! ” says Nora. She draws a sigh of honest relief. 
“ It was so foolish of me — but I suppose I was a little 
overdone. And I was frightened. And ” 

“ Yes, I know,” says the good Sophie. ‘‘ It takes a 
lot out of one, to be really unhappy.” 

“ Yes, yes. But I do feel ashamed. To faint — and 
for nothmg ! He must think me an idiot.” 

‘‘ He thinks you perfection. You should have seen 
his face when he called me. I was just passing through 
the hall as he opened the library door ; what luck that 
was ! It might have been one of the servants or Sir Fell. 
]Iut, providentially, it was me. He looked like a ghost. 
He quite hurt my arm as he caught me and drew me into 
the room. And after all it was nothing ; you opened 
your eyes almost as I got to the chair in which you were.” 

“ It was so unpleasant,” says Nora, frowning. ‘‘ I have 
always so hated a scene. And now I have made myself 
the heroine of one.” 

“ He said something. Nora, just before you quite re- 
covered yourself, I think, perhaps, I ought to tell you. 

If you are going to marry him, you ” 

What did he say?” Nora looks at her inquiringly, 
yet without anxiety. 

“ He said : He was nervous — upset — or probably he 
would never have said it — and I don’t think perhaps, 
after all, that I ought to repeat it. And I shouldn’t, 
Nora, only that I think, if you are going to marry him, 
you ought to undo the impression.” 

“ But what impression ? What is it ? What did he 


NOBA CBEINA, 


277 


He said : ‘ Sophie, she hates me ! ’ There was some- 
thing dreadful in the way he said it. As if the words 
broke his heart as he said them. Kora, you don’t hate 
him, do you ? ” 

‘‘ I neither hate nor love him. I,” she breaks away 
from her enforced calm, and says, passionately: ‘‘ I 
neither hate nor love any one — anything.” 

Oh! that’s not true,” says Sophie, cheerfully. ‘‘ You 
love me, certainly. Thafs all nonsense. I know you are 
unhappy, Nora — as unhappy as ever you can be, but — 
other people can be unhappy too.” 

“ Other people ! ” Nora stares at her. ‘‘ You?” 

“ Yes. Why not? You remember what Miranda said 
last night, that Sir Fell could refuse to give us our money 
imless we married to please him. Well, Denis will not 
please him ! I don’t see now,” sighing, how I am ever 
to marry Denis ! You think yourself unhappy, Nora, 
and you are — you are indeed,” with deep sympathy, 

but then I am unhappy too.” 

‘‘ You ! ” says Nora again. She rises to her feet, and 
looks at her sister strangely. ‘‘ You can never be un- 
happy,” says she. ‘‘ He loves you. But I — but I ” 

She throws her arms out from her suddenly. Sophie 
goes to her. 

‘‘ If you are so unhappy about this engagement with 
Mr. Carnegie, why don’t you throw it up ? ” say she hur- 
riedly. 

“ That is the worst of it. There is no going back. 
One never can go back, Sophie. A thing once done is 
done forever. We walk on through life, and, as we go, 
the road closes up behind us. If — ” drawing back, as 
though some horrible thought has struck her, and lay- 
ing her hand upon the arm of the sofa to steady herself 
— “ if we seek to turn — ^to retrace our footsteps — we 
find a wall behind us, tall, unsurmountable, unconquer- 
able.”' 

“In your case there is surely a going back,” says 
Sophie. 

“ There is no going back, I tell you. We may mend 
our ways on the journey, we may see that we stumble 
less, that we avoid the stones — ^the pitfalls, but — we can 
never go back ! ” 

“ You ca?i go back, Nora 1 ” 


278 


NORA CREINA. 


“ Can I ? Just think ! I can throw over Mr. Carnegie, 
no doubt, to marry some other man. But shall I love that 
other man more than Mr. Carnegie? Can I ever love 
again ? How am I to go back ? ” 

“ You would then ? ” asks Sophie. 

“ Oh ! if I could ! ” She turns away from Sophie, and 
walks to the window, with hurried steps and a soul on 
fire. If she could ! If she could wake once again with a 
light, glad heart — with no knowledge of that terrible 
thing called love. 

Her last interview with Ferris had torn her heart in 
twain. She had loved — and the one she loved had been 
laid bare before her — his soul had been uncovered in her 
sight — all his deformities stood out hideous, cancerous. 
He had lied, deceived ! He had no honor ! Honor ! that 
greatest of all things, was unknown to him. The girl 
had seen this, and the knowledge had withered her. And 
yet — ^and yet — the tones of his voice ring still in her ears. 
She can see the soft glances — the tender looks, that once 
were all hers. 

“ But, Nora, there is plenty of time. Get out of this 
engagement. Do^ darling! I can see how wretched it is 
making you. Get out of it some way or other.” 

“ But how ? ” 

“ Oh ! I don’t know ; wriggle out of it.” 

“ Let me speak the truth for once, Sophie,” says Nora. 
She is standing, looking in the growing dusk like a slim 
lily, so pale, so cold, so upright. “ I shall marry Mr. 
Carnegie because — because I have to marry somebody. 
Because,” slowly, with a cruel effort, I don’t want Cyril 
to think I am — forsaken.” 

“Nora!” Sophie runs to her. “How dare you say 
such a thing? You, gou forsaken ! Well, I should think 
he will see now that you are not that. Why, Mr. Carne- 
gie is quite a splendid match — much better than him. 
He ” — slowly, and with most unmistakable malevolence 
— “ he will be eaten alive with jealousy when he hears 
of this engagement.” 

“ I should like him to hear, and at once — qidcTdy^'' says 
Nora, her breath coming in little short sighs from her. 

“ Should you? Well, I’ll arrange that. Eusebius will 
manage it. But do lie down and rest yourself, darling. 
You are looking like a ghost again,” 


NORA CUEmA. 


279 


“ I should like to go into the garden, I think,” says 
Nora. “ How sweet it looks. How calm. And the air — 
I want the air upon my forehead.” 

“ Come then,” says Sophie. “ A little stroll up and 
down will do you no harm. It is only six o’clock, and 
they will not expect to see me in the drawing-room until 
a quarter to eight.” 

***** 

Outside all is soft, filmy, beautiful. A little veil lies 
over everything — a veil soft as gossamer, and almost as 
warm, though this veil is of mist. 

The two girls, pacing soberly along the accustomed 
walks, silent, sad, scarce heed the beauty of the coming 
night. Heed scarcely anything, indeed until a head show- 
ing itself over the broken part of the w^all from the right 
hand side, catches Sophie’s eyes. Perhaps she had been 
looking out for it. 

It is the head of Denis Butler. Sophie, dropping a 
little behind Nora, under the pretext of picking an imag- 
inary fiower, waves to him frantically to go away. To 
go away at once. To her kindly heart it seems that now 
it would be a most cruel thing to bring into evidence the 
man who loves her, when the one whom Nora loves has 
just proved so basely false. 

Denis, with his knee on the top of the wall, in the act 
of descending, gazes back at Sophie, as if not understand- 
ing. He has come a long way, and to be sent about his 
business like this, does not occur to him as altogether a 
correct sort of thing. Seeing him hesitate, Sophie makes 
a last, great demonstration, with both her arms this time, 
and the words “ Go away,” framed upon her lips, come 
almost to an utterance. 

Nora catches the demonstration, just in time to see Mr. 
Butler about to go as he had come. jS/ie waves to him in 
turn, and seeing him arrested in his fiight, turns to 
Sophie. 

It is no good, Sophie,” says she, mournfully. “ I’ll 
have to dree my weird, one way or the other. Go to him. 
Go to Denis. He must learn it to-day, if not to-morrow. 
Better to-day,” 


1 


280 


NORA C REIN A. 


CHAPTER L. 

“ The sun on Ivera 

No longer shines brightly 
The voice of her music 
No longer is sprightly.” 

Noka, left to herself, goes slowly clown the scented 
paths of the old garden. Past the bushes of flaming 
fuchsia, and the round staring beds of asters, to where the 
lavender grows in wild confusion, and the late-sown 
mignonette is giving an added sweetness to the evening 
air. 

Heart sickness is making her its prey. So sick she is, 
that she cannot lift her head, or care for anything, or see 
the beauty that is calling to her all around. Some people 
in their grief have strength to rise and defy their fate, but 
Nora — a little girl — country bred and knowing nothing of 
the great compellings that would rouse a girl born to 
society and the world to smile and talk, and show interest 
in things in her own set, though her heart were bursting 
— ^breaks down entirely. Though, to do her justice, it is 
in private she breaks down ; and perhaps, her blood being 
good, had she been flung into the w’orld at this moment, in 
spite of her country life she could have shown herself as 
calm, as sphinx like, as the best society girl of the season. 

But here — here in this sweet, cool garden, w ith no one 
to pry upon her sadness, she gives her grief full sway. 
Not in open tears indeed — she seldom cries — but in the 
terrible heart tears, that destroy the young. 

It has been a relief to her to get rid of Sophie. Of even 
Sophie ! She had betrayed her grief to Sophie. It was 
impossible not to do so. Sophie was always present, so 
much there^ always on the spot. Darling Sophie ! But 
she had often wished that no one in the Avhole wide world 
should guess at the trouble of her heart. 

She would have kept it away from every one, a sacred 
sorrow known to herself alone, but like the sad person in 
that exquisite poem of Robert Bridges, who says ; 

“ How may a man in smart 
Find matter to rejoice ? 

How may a morrnying hart 
Set foorth a pleasant voice ? 


NORA CREINA, 


• 281 


Play whoso can, that part ; 

Nedes must in me appere 
How fortune ouerthwart 

Doth cause my moorning chere.” 


Nora’s sad thoughts are suddenly broken in upon. She 
Iiad turned a corner in her lonely, sad meditations, and the 
voice of Daddledy, uplifted, strikes in upon them. 

He is bending over a rose bush, and is evidently count- 
ing the flowers upon it. • 

“ Eight, nine, tin. Fegs, ’tis tin ! Oh ! Wirra ! ” At 
this point he sees Nora, and his voice grows piercing. 

“ Who’s been pickin’ me roses ? ” demands he, standing 
before the rose hush, that certainly looks shorn. “Was 
it you or Miss Sophie? Fegs, I wouldn’t put it beyond 
aither of ye ! Come now, spake the truth.” 

“ It was Sir Fell,” says Nora, in a dull sort of wny. 
Another time she would have resented this accusation, and 
the manner of making it. “ I saw him bring in some of 
them in the afternoon— to the library.” 

(“ To adorn the room for the sacrifice,’') she tells her- 
self bitterly. To make it beautiful for Mr. Carnegie when 
he came. To brighten up the old house, to show it at its 
best, so as to enhance the value of the victim. Yet, is she 
a victim ? Is she not rather a very willing sacrifice ? 

“ The masther ?” asks Daddledy, wrath growing in his 


“Yes,” indifferently, “ Sir Fell.” 

“May the divil fly aivay wid him,” says Daddledy, 
whose manners are not his strong point. He gives vent 
to this appalling wish with a purple face, and a great deal 
of emphasis. 

“ Why ?” asks Nora, stopping short on her way up the 
uretty iiath to ask him the (question. “ Hiey are his ow^n, 
are they not? ” She is so mad with all the world, the 
world that has placed he?- in the wrong— that to put even 
so small a creature as this old man in the wrong seems 
to her at this edged moment a necessity. 

“ IBs is it?” Daddledy stops as if choked with wrath, 
and the choking having given him pause, he goes on again 
more quietly : “ There may be sinse in that, says he 
slowly now, and with a delightful air of impartiality— of 
allowing all things to all men. “But there is wan thing 
ye must remimber, Miss, he’s payin’ me (an dom bad 


282 


yOHA CHEIXA, 


wages too), to loolf afther Ii5s own, an’ how am I to do it, 
I ax ye, wid him coinin’ thievin’ round here afther me 
little products ? Answer me that; ! ” says Daddledy de- 
fiantly. 

‘‘ But you must see ” begins Nora. 

“ Divil a ha’porth I see, except that me roses is stolen,” 
says Daddledy, who is beyond argument now. “ An fegs. 
Miss Xora, I wouldn’t say a Tvord if me repitation wasn’t 
in question. But herself s goin’ to give a tinnis party to- 
morrow or next day, and where’ll I be thin, wid me roses ? 
I wouldn’t say a word,” says Daddledy with dignity, '"if 
he had tuk the blown ones only — ’twouldn’t malther 
about thun — ^but he tuk the buds — nothin’ would do him 
but the buds, if ye plaze ! ” (Deep irony here.) “ An’ be 
the Yargin, Miss Xora, I spint wan whole hour, countin’ 
thim buds, tliis mornin’ ! ” 

“ You must have had very little to do,” says Xora, who 
is out of tmie with everything. 

“ It’s mighty sharp ye are, this evenin’ ! ” says Dad- 
dledy, cocking up his old head with a disgusted glance 
at her. This glance, however, widens itself, and dw'ells 
upon the pretty face before it with a quickened interest. 
His small, keen, old Irish eyes, peeping from under the 
bent browns, see cause for comment in the sw^eet, sad eyes 
before them. 

“ What’s the matther wid ye?” asks he, sharply, sud- 
denly. 

“ Xothing — nothing ! ” says Xora. 

Is that why yer two eyes is like a furnace ? ” says 
Daddledy. He peers a little more. Who’s been scoldin’ 
ye ? ” asks he. 

“ Xobody.” 

“There’s a fiarin’ lie, somewhere,” says Daddledy. 
“ Come, out wid it, now. It ’ll do yer heart good. Has 
the masther been at ye, again?” 

“Xo, no.” 

“ Is it anythin’ about that gommoch at the Castle ? 
Ferris, I beUeve ye calls him. Fegs, Ferret would be a 
thruer name for him.” 

“Certainly Mr. Ferris has nothing to do with me,” 
says Xora wrathfully. “ I really wish, Daddledy ” 

“ Arrah, be aisy ! Whj can’t an ould man talk to ye? 
Didn’t I see ye as a babby? If it isn’t that washed-out 


NORA CREINA. 283 

creature above there,” pointing in the direction of Castle 
Saggart, “ maybe, it’s Mr. Carnegie ? ” 

‘‘Oh, if you must hear it,” says Xora impatiently. 
“ Mr. Carnegie has caused me — that is — he — well, he has 
worried me.” 

She makes a movement and goes on, but Daddledy 
hobbles after her. 

“What’s he been doin’?” 

Plainly there is no getting out of it. Xora stops shorty 
and confronts her old tormentor with a frowning brow. 

“ He has asked me to marry him ! ” says she. 

“ Blessed hour! an’ do ye call that worryin’ ye? Och! 
Murdher ! To think of his takin’ sich a fancy to a slip 
like you.” He pauses here, stroking his chin, and regard- 
ing Xora with a fixed stare as if lost in amazement at the 
idea of a?ij/ sensible man falling a prey to her. “ W ell, 
some gintiiry is fools ! An’ what did ye say to him?” 

“ I said ‘ yes ’ ! ” says Xora, with a sigh ; she is indeed so 
far gone in melancholy, that she fails to resent his open 
depreciation of her. 

“ An’ it stuck in yer throat ? ” says Daddledy, with 
awful scorn. “ Is that what brought the toai*s to yer 
eyes ? Faix,” — waxing very wroth — “ I’m not surprised 
at 5’er cryin’ ! The doin’ o’ the first sinsible action o’ yer 
life must have been a cruel shock to ye.” It would be 
impossible to describe the depth of the sarcasm in this 
speech. Only one who has known an Irish peasant could 
understand his capacity for satire. 

“ I don’t want to be sensible,” says poor Xora. “ I only 
want to be happy ! ” A little sob breaks from her, and 
she raises her handkerchief to her eyes. “ According to 
your showing, to be sensible is to be — miserahle ! ” 

“ Very often, faix ! ” agrees Daddledy, cheerfully. 
“ But not in this case. Ye’ve settled yourself for life, let 
me tell ye, an’ that most respictably. I didn’t give ye 
credit for so much cleverness. Arrah ! stop yer tears, ye 
omadhaun of a child, an’ thank the blessed V argin for 
throwing that fool of a man in yer way ! ’Pon me fegs 
I thought he’d sinse in him, but afther this — don’t be ta.lkin’ 
to me ! ” It is once more plain that Daddledy considers 
the man who has elected to entrust his happiness to her, 
a born fool. “ ’Tis marryin’ a juke’s daughter he might 
be,” says he. 


284 


mnA cnm^A. 


“ I wish he says Nora. And then, a little stung 
by his comments, ‘‘ I may not be a duke’s daughter, 
Daddledy, but still — everj/ one has not such a low opinion 
of me as you have.” 

“ I can see that for mesilf, me dear ! ” says Daddledy, 
unruffled. “ Misther Carnegie has let me see that much. 
Well, some peox)le has great luck, surely ! Now, who on 
airth would ha’ thought that a harum scarum creature 
like you, would be ridin’ in a coach an’ four.” 

“ I wish some one else was going to drive in it ! ” says 
Nora dismally, the tears dropping down her cheeks. “ I 
hate him, and his carriages, and servants, and everything ; 
and oh, Daddledy, I hate to be married at all ! ” 

There is something of an appeal in her tone that 
touches the old man, who after all, in his own begrudging 
fashion, loves the two children who have grown up with- 
in his garden as it were. 

“ They all says that,” says he. “ I nivir yet see a girl 
goin’ to be married — an’ dom glad to be married, mind 
ye — that she didn’t say that she wanted to be in her grave 
first. ’Tis part of it, me dear. Women are quare,” says 
Daddledy, sinking into deep thought. ‘‘ The quarest 
things alive ! They’d betther be married nor single. 
They wants always the whip-hand over ’em, to keep ’em 
ill ordher.” 

“ I’m not going to have a whip-hand over me ! ” says 
Nora indignantly. If Daddledy had meant to check her 
tears, and bring her to a sounder state of mind by his 
speech, he has quite succeeded, but as a fact Daddledly 
had no such design. 

“ No ! ” says he, stroking his chin again. “ Thin I’m 
thinkin’ ye’re mistakiiT yersilf a bit. He looks just like 
that.” 

“ Like what ? ” 

“ Like houldin’ his own, faix ! ” 

“And what do Hook like ?” demands Nora imperiously. 
She has drawn up her slight, beautiful little figure to its 
full height, and is looking at him with eyes brilliant, angry, 
haughty. 

“ Like a slip of a colleen as y’ are ! ” says Daddledy. 
“ Wliat ails ye at all to-day?” continues he, angrily. 
“ D'ye think a man like Carnegie wasn’t born to rule the 
likes o’ you. To the divil wid pride ! Isn’t he a good 


KOHA CnElNA, 285 

man, an’ a dacent wan, an’ why shouldn’t ye bow to yer 
own husband ? ” 

“ I’ll bow down to nobody,” say Nora with spirit. 
The old man has, in a measure, drawn her away from her 
despair — there has even been a moment when she could 
have laughed at him. Even now she can hardly suppress 
the little smile that used to be such a constant customer 
at the corner of her lips. To be called “ a slip of a colleen ” 
— that was funny ! 

“ No, of course ye won’t. The world is gittin’ upside 
down,” says Daddledy. “Ye don’t know where to look 
nowadays for anythin’ dacent ; I’ve lost me faith in every- 
thin’,” says he. “ In man, woman, and child. As for the 
gossoons, be me word, they’re more knowin’ than their 
gran’fathers.” 

Nora laughs, a little begrudging laugh, but involuntary. 

“ Oh, notin everything,” says she. “ Your Priest now, 
Daddledy ; in woman, naughty woman, you may have 
lost faith, but not in your Priest ! ” 

“ Fegs, I have thin,” says Daddledy. “What would ye 
think of Father John Dinneeri doin’ me the way he did?” 

“ What way ? ” 

“ I’m tellin’ ye, if ye’ll only hould yer tongue,” says 
Daddledy crossly. “ He came to me wan day last week, 
an’ says he, ‘ Daddledy,’ says he, ‘ I want ye to go down 
to the Maguires,’ says he — ye know. Miss, the Maguires 
and the Sullivans had a dispute about a pig — a lame ould 
divil of a pig that wandhered so much about the world 
that both the Sullivans an’ the Maguires (ye know they 
live in the same bawn) claimed him for their own. It 
wouldn’t be like that, only that both the Maguires and the 
Sullivans lost a pig a month ago, an’ so they were at a loss, 
an’ they both stoutly believed that the wandherin’ pig was 
theirs. There was the divil’s row anyway between the 
Maguires an’ the Sullivans, an’ I bein’ me uncle’s wife’s 
cousin to the Maguires, was ast be Father John to go 
down to thim, an’ spake a paceable word or two. The 
Sullivans is a bad lot, an’ I said I’d as like stay at home 
as not. I said it wasn’t a thrade I cared to larn. Fegs, 
Miss, thim Sullivans would as soon sind a stone at yer 
head on a moonshiny night, as ate their stirabout. ‘But,’ 
says Father John, ‘if ye’ll do this thing, Daddledy,’ says 
he, ‘ I’ll see ye shan’t lose by it,” 


286 


mUA CUEINA. 


“ Ah, a reward,” says Nora. 

‘‘ Just that. Miss ! A reward indeed ! ” Daddledy grows 
sarcastic. “ Well, I wint on my way rejoicin’ thinkin’ 
that, if I succeeded. Father John would have somethin’ 
good in store for me. An’ I patched it up wid the Sullivans 
an’ the Maguires and came back to Father John. ^ Now,’ 
says I, ‘ here I am. They won’t go to law,’ says I, ‘ they’re 
as paceable as doves. What’ll ye give me now ? ’ says I. 

‘‘ ‘ Arrah ! what d’ye want, man dear ? ’ says he, as soft 
as ye plaze. 

“ ‘ Why ye promised me a reward,’ says I. 

So I did,’ says he. 

‘‘ ‘ What is it ? ’ says I. 

“ ‘ Me blessin’ ! ’ says he. 

“ ‘ May the divil have you, an’ yer blessin’,’ says I, 
which maybe wasn’t mannerly. Miss, but ’tw’as what I 
meant^ anyway. Daddledy pauses angrily. “ He decaived 
me,” says he. 

“Yes, yes,” says Nora. Her thoughts had flown. 
Poor old Daddledy, he had been deceived, and she — had 
Cyril been honest towards her ? A great wave of misery, 
of despair, of disbelief in all things, catches her and sways 
her soul. 

The old gardener, gazing at her, sees the increasing 
pallor of her young face, and says suddenly, kindly for 
him : 

“Miss Nora, avick! See now; I believe ye’re frettin’ 
always for that young idler at the Castle ! ” 

Nora looks at him for a moment, such a look ! then, 
turning suddenly, goes up the garden path and into the 
laurels beyond— carrying with her her anguish, her despair 
her wrath. 


CHAPTER LI. 


“ ‘ O ! beauty of my heart,’ he said, 

‘ O darling, darling mine, 

Was ever light of evening shed. 

On loveliness like thine ? ’ ” 

It is a month later. Summer lies dead, yet warmth 
and beauty still adorn the smiling earth. For golden 
September is with us, more golden than ever to-day, 


NORA CREINA. 


287 


where, lying back in a wicker chair in the old flower- 
garden, Nora is sitting with a book in her hands but her 
thouglits far, far away. 

From the flower beds round her, moist perfumes rise ; 
she is sitting beneath a barberry tree, and a wealth of 
yellow blossoms shed, is making a rich carpet at her feet. 
Some late roses are blooming near her, and over there, 

‘‘ Asters of palest, delicatest blue, 

Slender and fragile, lift their golden eyes. 

Adoring, to the sun whose warm kiss dries 
Their tears of dew.” 

Ferris is staying at Mrs. Vancourt’s place in England. 
So much Nora has learned, indirectly and without inquiry. 
It would have seemed to the girl impossible to ask a ques- 
tion about him — even the smallest -although her heart 
forever troubles itself about him. 

There is this greater trouble in it — in that much gall is 
mingled with the sweetness of the love that once she bore 
him. There is nothing on earth so mournful as the slow 
awakening to the knowledge that the idol one has reared 
for oneself, and loved and worshipped, is made of the im- 
purest clay after all. 

Beaten in on Nora’s brain forever is the memory of that 
last meeting with Ferris. Every tone, every glance is clear 
to her, to her everlasting grief. That he — that he should 
prove himself a thing of naught — he, to whom she had 
given all her heart’s best love ! The knowledge of his 
dishonor seems to have dishonored herself, so closely did 
she hold him in her regard ; and severe as the stab of a 
knife that gives a death- wound, was the awakening to that 
knowledge. 

Sophie is always sympathetic, but even to Sophie, for 
very pride’s sake, she could not reveal the misery she 
endured when first she heard that he had gone to stay 
with Mrs. Vancourt for the shooting. Of course it had 
not been 07 ily Mrs. Vancourt — it was all strictly proper. 
The house had been “ crammed with guests,” according 
to Miranda, who always knew everything, and had per- 
haps purposely increased the number of Mrs. Yancourt’s 
guests, to give Nora comfort. But it was sorry comfort 
always, and the girl drooped and pined, and went about 
the house like a small ghost, sad, and out of heart. 

It seems to Nora, sitting here in the sweet evening sun- 


288 


J^ORA cnmj^A. 


light, and letting her thoughts run backward, that if she 
could only have remembered him with kindliness, that 
though he were dead, swept away from her forever on 
life’s stream— she could still have known happiness ; but 
to remember him always as false, dishonored, disloyal 
. . . . That is hard. 

The hook slips from her lap and falls to the ground. 
As she stoops to pick it up, the light lifting of a latch in 
the little garden gate catches her attention. She colors 
faintly ; it is Carnegie, of course — she sighs quickly and 
resignedly. His coming is inevitable! He is always here 
— of course, 

Carnegie steps across the shaven grass towards her, 
with a smile upon his lips. There is, however, a certain 
sense of uneasiness in his smile. He looks a little nervous, 
and this look, sitting on his strong kindly face, is so out 
of place there, that it is the more remarkable. Will Nora 
receive him graciously or coldl y ? Y esterday it was coldly, 
and coldly it was, too, the day before. Alas ! the days 
when his reception is a gracious one are few and far between, 
yet the very capriciousness of the girl has its charm for 
him. 

He looks at her now, and seeing her lovely head turned 
towards him (sometimes it is not so turned, sometimes he 
has had to announce himself, and all through little Madam’s 
wilfulness), he takes heart of grace, and his step grows 
quicker. Plainly this is one of her gracious days — like one 
of those first sweet days after she liad accepted him. 

She had made herself wonderfully charming then. Her 
spirits had been so wild indeed, that even Ae had been scar- 
tied by them. The poor child had hoped that Ferris w’ould 
have heard of her engagement, and how happy she was in 
it, and have known thereby some little suffering, a faint, 

{ ahit touch of the suffering that is desolating her young 
eart. x\nd Ferris, as a fact, had heard, and had suffered in 
his own way, hut had held to his word with Mrs. Yancourt 
all the same, and had left the country without seeing Nora 
again. 

There had been a little scene with Mrs. Yancourt two 
or three nights after his final interview with Nora. It took 
place in the conservatory — a room, alas I filled with rec- 
ollections of that little sweet girl, to whom, in truth, all 
his most unworthy love was given. 


NOnA OEMJ^A. 


L>89 


‘‘I have heard of your meeting her again,” Mrs. Van- 
court had said, her small, vivid face aflame. “ Are you 
mad ? Will you drive me to a decision ? You know what 
that will mean to you. You shall break with her.” 

“ I have broken with her,” said Ferris hoarsely, to whom 
the memory of a little, pale, beautiful, despairing face is 
still too fresh, ‘‘ as you so demanded ! Though why one 
should break an ordinary friendship ” 

‘‘I don’t like ordinary friendships with pretty girls, 
with the man Avho has asked me to marry him,” said 
Mrs. Yancourt, calmly.- “And, if only an ordinary friend- 
ship, why do you look like that? It must have been a 
most extraordinary friendship to bring that pallor round 
your lips.” 

It had ended there, and Ferris had gone to England to 
her place for the partridge shooting. It is now September, 
and he still is there, as Nora knows. One’s friends are 
always so willing to impart the news one hates. 

All that seems long ago now. Nora had perhaps a 
vague last hope that when he heard of her engagement to 
Carnegie, he would find it impossible to let it continue, 
and would have come back to her. But he had not 
come back. And now all — all is at an end. 

As for Carnegie — at first, so sweet the girl had seemed, 
in that strange, wild burst of excitement, that meant 
despair, that followed on his engagement to her — that joy 
unrestrained had entered into him. Never in all his life 
had he felt so light, so joyous. Not for one moment did 
he suspect that Nora cared for any one. He knew she did 
not care for him, but to get her heart-whole, why that 
only meant time. With a heart free from love, why she 
would learn to love him by-and-by, and very soon too, if 
it be true that love begets love. 

He had spent a lonely life enough. There had been no 
family ties. He had no sisters, and only one brother, a 
most uncongenial one, and was left an orphan very early. 
Happiness — through Nora — had suddenly become known 
to him. His heart had grown light ! That first scene 
with her, when she had fainted, he had put down to 
agitation, and had thought little of it. A child like that 
— of course she had been disturbed. There was nothing 
in that little agitation of hers. And he would be good to 
her. So good. He felt as if he was the lightest-hearted, 

19 


290 


NOBA CBEINA. 


the happiest man in all the world. A very little more 
happiness, and he told himself, with a laugh, that he could 
have flown. He laughed at the folly of his own conceit ; 
but it seemed very real to him all the same. Oh ! for the 
“ little more ” ; if he had it, he could have flown to her 
daily, hourly. 

As it was, he went to Dunmore daily, on horseback 
mostly. He used to take the horse round to the stables 
himself, and then come and hunt for her in house and 
garden. He would not have her remain at home for him, 
if any amusement called her forth. He was in all things, 
indeed, her willing slave — a slave unappreciated, un- 
desired, unloved ! 

“ I have found you, Nora,” says he, advancing. Nora’s 
exquisite face is towards him. The last bars of sunlight 
are falling athwart it. They seem to catch, to hold her. 
She seems to him an embodiment of the beauty of this 
clear evening — in unison with it, as it were, for 

“ Her presence is Spring through the world” 

for him, and is it not always spring-time when she is near ? 

“Yes, yes,” says Nora, rising. 

She gives him her cool, little hand. He looks at her for 
a moment, as if gauging her humor, and then, feeling he 
dare not go a step further, presses it to his lips. 

Once, once only, he had kissed her. He could never 
forget the scene that followed on it. It was slight, del- 
icate ; but yet he had sworn to himself after that, that 
he would never kiss her again, until — things were at a 
happier pass between them. He had been almost tempted 
to withdraw altogether, to renounce his claim to her — but 
he could not. Her very coldness increased her charm for 
him. 

Just now, she is smiling — perhaps that late thinking of 
Ferris — Ferris, who had abandoned her — has compelled 
her to see Carnegie in a better light. At all events, she 
gives him a very kindly reception. 

“ I am so glad you have come,” says she. “ Because I 
have had no one to speak to for half an hour, and half an 
hour of one’s own thoughts means something^ I can tell 
you.” 

“ Something for some other poor wretch ? ” says he, 
seating himself beside her. 


NORA CREINA. 


291 


“ Oh ! no. Only dulness, for oneself.” 

“ But how are you so alone ? Where is Sophie ? ” 

She laughs, and shakes her head. 

“ What a question ! With Denis, of course ! You know 
Sir Fell disapproves of Denis, but then Sophie approves, 
and that makes all the difference. I like Denis. Don’t 
you ? ” 

“ Very much. More than I can say. As a brother-in- 
law I shall admire him even more.” 

“ That is like you,” says Nora, prettily. “ I shall tell 
Sophie that. It will please her. Not that she wants to 
be prejudiced in your favor. She is your friend already, 
heart and soul.” 

“ Ah ! I guessed that.” 

“You would ! She leaves it very open,” says Nora 
smiling. “ Dear old Sophie ! She keeps one up. She is 
so merry ” 

“ Merry ! She is the very merriest person I know,” 
says Carnegie, to whom indeed Sophie is dear. Is she 
not his friend ? Has she not helped him to his desired 
haven ? 

“Ah ! she should be,” says Nora. “ She loves Denis.” 

“ And he loves her ! ” 

“ He does indeed.” 

“ And I love you.” 

“ Yes. You have said so.” 

“ And you believe it ? ” 

“ Yes, yes, indeed.” 

“ And you ? ” He is looking at Nora, and suddenly she 
lifts her eyes and looks at Mm, There is such trouble in 
the sweet depths of her eyes, that the man in him rises, 
and refuses to accept the pain he has evoked. 

“ Don’t speak. I should not have asked,” says he hur- 
riedly. “ Nora, there is time — time — time for you and me. 
You,” he takes her hand and holds it closely, “you like 
me, at all events. You think of me as a friend. So far 
we have got ? ” 

“ Yes. A friend. You are a friend,” says Nora, letting 
her hand lie quietly in his. “ I know it. I feci it.” 

“ But to be only a friend, forever. Nora ! can I do noth- 
ing — say nothing. Is it impossible to you to regard me 
with a deeper feeling? ” 

He drops her hand, and springing to his feet, paces up 


292 


NORA CBEINA, 


and down the shorn grass. He is agitated, pale. All at 
once he conies back to her. 

“Love me, Nora!” entreats he. “ Try to love me. 
What is my life to me, if I miss you ? Only love me.” 

“ If I could,” says Nora rising, and looking at him, with 
frightened eyes. “ Oh ! — if I could — I icant to — I do indeed. 
And it is not so much you ask — you — who are so good, so 
true ” 

“It is a great deal,” says Carnegie abruptly. “ It means 
everything to me ! And why can’t you love me, Nora — 
my beloved ? With your young heart empty — why cannot 
you give your love to me, to me who adores you ? ” 

Nora feels choking. Her lips part. Now — now she 
must tell him. Her heart free ! She feels that her face 
is growing ghastly. 

“ You — you don’t know — I must tell you,” she is begin- 
ning, when suddenly a sound upon her left— the coming 
of feet — the sound, in fact, of a footman carrying a tea-tray, 
upsets her righteous determination to tell Carnegie all the 
truth ; the truth of her fatal love for Ferris .... that 
carries in its train an even sadder fact for Carnegie, that 
her heart is not free to hear a love for him. 

But footmen, like Fate, are ever dogging one’s footsteps. 
Miranda, seeing Nora and Carnegie in the garden from an 
upper window, had desired one of the men to give them 
their tea out there. 

The footman advances with a heavy tread# A little 
rustic table standing near, he deposits his tray upon it, 
makes a few deft movements here and there amongst the 
silver and china, and then carefully withdraws. 

Nora rises quickly, goes towards the table, and then 
busies herself with the sugar and cream, and so forth. 

“Well?” asks Carnegie, following her. “You were 
going to tell me something.” 

“Was I? I have forgotten it.” All at once she has 
decided upon saying nothing. She had been full of her 
confession, but that little break caused by the coming of 
the tea-tray has disarranged all her plans. To tell him ! 
No, it is impossible. 

She busies herself about the cups and saucers — giving 
Carnegie his tea with a little brilliant smile, that warms 
his heart, and pressing upon him the hot cakes with a 
gaiety that enchants him. . . . How can he guess that 


NORA CREINA, 


293 


the gaiety is born of a reaction — a reaction from fear, and 
misery, and humiliation ? 

There are more reactions than one, however. Before 
she has quite finished pouring out the tea, and dallying 
delicately with the cups and saucers, the sudden gaiety 
that had caught her has died down. The swift sweet 
fiush has fied her cheeks, the light has gone from her eyes. 
She grows so pale, indeed, that Carnegie, who has seldom 
his eyes off her, notices the change. 

“ How pale you are,” says he suddenly. 

‘‘Am 1‘?” 

“Yes.” 

“You imagine things.” 

“No. Your cheeks are whiter than they used to be; 
whiter than they were an hour ago.” 

“ You were not here an hour ago. How can you know ? ” 

“ I do know for all that. What is it, Nora? ” He looks 
anxiously at her. 

“The heat. You. should make an allowance for the 
heat,” laughing — it is rather a meagre laugh, however. 

“Well; it certainly is warm for September,” says he, 
slowly, as if only half convinced. “ But T sometimes think 
you want change. That would set you up.” 

“Oh, never mind me,” says Nora, laughing again, a 
little impatiently however, this time. “ Don’t talk about 
me. I am not interesting. Tell me some news. What 
of our friends ? Any marriages or making of marriages ? 
C6me, amuse me. I want to be amused.” 

“News. Nothing that I can think of. Nothing cer- 
tainly that you do not know. The friends that I have 
here, are your friends too. So of course you know all 
about them.” 

“That doesn’t follow. We go out so little, Sophie and 
I, that ]3erhaps some small interesting item has escaped 
us. Of course I don’t expect to hear anything thrilling. 
Anything,” laughing softly again, “ likely to disturb my 
rest. Still — any little trifle I shall accept with gratitude.” 

“ Even a crumb, I don’t believe I have to offer. But 
let us go through the latest intelligence,” entering into 
her mood and laughing too. “ I feel like the Court Cir- 
cular!!'' says he, “but certainly not so up to date. To be- 
gin. Of course you have heard about Ferris.” 

“Ferris? Cyril?” it is so great a surprise, that her 


294 


NOllA CEEINA, 


blood stands still within her veins, so that she grows 
neither pale nor red. Cyril ! What is he going to tell 
her about Cyril ? 

“ Why, haven’t you heard ? ” says Carnegie all uncon- 
scious, and seeing nothing in her unchanged face to warn 
him. ‘‘Well! I was perfectly certain you would have 
heard about him — he was such a friend of yours and 
Sophie’s. Why, he is engaged to be married after all to 
that little widow, who was staying at Saggart — you 
remember her? — Mrs. Vancourt. Stupid little person I 
thought her, but of course she had money. They are to 
be married before Chiistmas.” 

Nora leans forward. A mad desire to save herself — to 
hide her secret — to say something that will lead him off 
the track, is fighting for mastery. But alas ! The battle 
goes against her. Nature wins. Her tongue cleaves to 
the roof of her mouth. In one horrible, awful moment, 
all the past lies bare to her — all her love — her hopes. 
Never until now — when she has really lost him — 
does she perhaps altogether realize the fact that he has 
gone from her ; gone forever ; swept utterly out of her 
life. Engaged. So soon. So soon ! So . 

Oh! what is it? What is happening to her? The 
grass — what is the matter with the grass ? Why does it 
rise up at her ? 

She rises, too, as if to ward off the soft green sward, 
throwing out her arms a little wildly. . . . Carnegie 

catches her. 

Her unconsciousness lasts only for a moment or two. 

“Forgive me!” says Carnegie, bending over her as her 
eyes open ; she grows strong enough to see that it is he, 
and to mark the haggard look upon his face, the sternness 
— the misery. “ Forgive me, I thought you knew ! And 
I ” — she never forgets his look as he goes on — “ and I — 
kneio nothing^ 

He puts her back gently on the garden chair, and leaves 
her. There is something in his air as he walks rapidly 
away from her that tells her he will not come back again. 
Her heart begins to beat — is it fear, or joy, or grief that 
stirs it ? To be left alone ! Alone ! Deserted by all ! 
By him who should have loved her. By him wlio did 
love her. Nora’s eyes follow Carnegie until he disappears 
into the evening mist. 


NOBA CBEINA. 


295 


CHAPTER LII. 

“ Down upon Claris heath 
Shines the soft berry, 

On the brown harvest tree 
Droops the red cherry. 

Sweeter thy honey lips, 

Softer the curl. 

Straying adown thy cheeks 
Maire, my girl! ” 

Sophie wandering upon the lowest path of the garden 
that goes by the strawberry banks, is giving way to sor- 
row. Not that she is crying. Tears and Sophie, as I 
have already said, are usually miles apart ; but one can 
be very sorry indeed without making one’s eyes hideous. 
Denis is going back to Dublin to-morrow ! To-morrow ! 

This is the burthen of the song her heart sings as she 
strolls slowly up and down the strawberry path, as it has 
grown to be called. 

The strawberry leaves, now turning to the most won- 
derful color, are on her right, and so is a breach in the 
wall. Through this breach a young man’s head shows 
presently. 

‘‘ Sophie ! ” says he. 

“ Oh, Denis, is it you ? ” 

“ It is. I think it is,” says Mr. Butler, struggling over 
the wall, a basket in his hand. 

I was just thinking of you,” says Sophie sadly. 
‘‘ What an angel you are, to come at the very moment I 
wanted you ! ” 

“ I know it. I feel it. I look like it,” says Mr. Butler, 
dropping to the ground, begrimed with dirt and mortar. 

“I was longing to see you,” says Sophie, who has 
reached him now, and is beating him into shape with 
much vigor. The clouds of dust that fly out of him be- 
neath her hearty hands, testify well to the dust that 
was in him before she started. 

“ And I to see you,” says he. “ That goes without say- 
ing. But, I say Sophie, lay it on milder there ! I’m weak 
on the off shoulder. Don’t thump me to death.” 

“ I never saw a dirtier boy,” says Sophie, still continu- 


296 


NORA CREINA, 


ing her exertions. “ Really, Denis, you’re worse than a 
road after a week’s sun. How did you come ? ” 

“ On that grand old steed, Shanks’ mare,” says Mr. 
Butler, who is evidently not in the least ashamed of him- 
self or his appearance, “ a slow old coach, to tell you the 
truth, hut sure.” 

He sinks down beside her on the hank, close to the 
laurels that form such an excellent evergreen shield from 
all passers-by. 

“ But why did you walk ? ” 

“ The horses Avere ploughing, and old Dan Avas so mad 
when I asked for a mount that I Avas afraid to press the 
matter.” 

“ Nonsense ! ” says Sophie.* “ To walk on this broiling 
day. I believe you’re afraid of Dan.” 

“ Tut ! Afraid. I’m afraid of only one person on earth, 
and that’s you ! ” 

‘‘ Then Avhy did you give in to Dan ? ” 

“ Because I’m practising. I know I shall have to give 
in to you when Ave are married, and so I had better learn 
hoAV to do it beforehand.” 

‘‘Ah! to mef says Sophie. She sighs heavily. “We 
shall never be married,” says she, elevating her brows 
and giving herself all the expression of one Avho knoAvs 
the Avorld is going to come to an end in five minutes or so. 

“ What on earth do you mean by that ? ” asks Butler, 
naturally a little uplifted. 

“Don’t ask me. You’ll hear it soon enough. I,” AAuth 
quite heroic force, “ have refrained from telling you up to 
this, but I suppose — Well,” tragically, “no matter!” 
She pauses, and then, catching sight of the basket in But- 
ler’s hand, curiosity gets the better of tragedy. “ What 
have you got there ? ” asks she. 

“ Grapes,” says Denis, placing the basket on her lap. 

“ Grapes ! ” says Sophie. 

“ Yes. I have an old cousin in Bray, and she sent me 
some this morning. I have brought them to you,” says 
Denis. “ They’re very fine. She’s as rich as she can be, 
so she can afford to grow them properly. I knoAV you 
and Nora like fruit.” 

“ All these ! ” says Sophie, draAving back the vine leaves 
and looking into the basket. “ But I believe,” lifting her 
eyes suddenly to his, “ you have kept none for yourself. 


NORA CREINA, 297 

This is the basket they came in. I can see the post- 
marks, and they have not been touched.” 

“ What on earth would I touch them for ? ” says But- 
ler. “What do I want with grapes? I brought them 
over for you and Nora. Girls like things like that. 1 
don’t — at least,” truthfully, “ not much. And I’ve 
brought you something else too, Sophie,” rather shame- 
facedly. “ I wish it had been diamonds, but ” 

He places a charming pearl ring in Sophie’s hand. 

“ There was such a beautiful diamond one there,” says 
he, “ but I hadn’t the money. When I havie^ Sophie, you 
shall have it — but I couldn’t come back from Cork ” — he 
had gone up to Cork by the morning train, and has just 
now returned — “ without buying you something — and I 
hope ” 

“ Oh, Denis ! ” says Sophie. “ Oh, Denis darling ! ” 
She flings her arms round his neck and hugs him. 
“ You’re beggaring yourself,” says she. 

“ Not a bit of it,” says he, laughing and hugging her 
vigorously, in turn. “ And do you like it really ? It isn’t 
much, is it ? But it’s pretty, too, and I thought it looked 
like you.” 

“ It’s lovely. Exquisite. I never saw so beautiful a 
ring ! ” says Sophie, almost crying with delight. “ But 
you mustn’t — you really mustnH^ Denis. You’re always 
giving me things, and I feel sometimes as if I shall land 
you in the poorhouse at the end. Look at that dear little 
brooch you gave me — I always wear it — see ! ” lifting her 
soft rounded chin to let him look at the little gold merry- 
thought brooch that lies beneath it. “ And those bangles, 
and the silk stockings, and the gloves, and ” 

“ Oh, get out ! ” says Mr. Butler. “ One would think I 
was a general warehouseman. But what did you mean a 
moment ago, when you said we should never be married ? ” 

“We never ^Aa/Znow,” says Sophie, with tears in her 
eyes. “ It appears that Sir Fell has the control of our 
fortunes ” 

“ Until you are twenty-flve.” 

“ Ah, no ! that is all wrong. He has control of it for- 
ever. Because, unless we marry a man of whom he ap- 
proves, he can retain the money. He won’t approve of 
2/o^^,” says Sophie. “ He,” prophetically, “ won’t approve 
of any one ! ” 


298 


noha cbeina. 


“ Good gracious ! what a ridiculous will,” says Butler. 

“ A wicked one, I call it.. I did hope that when I mar- 
ried you, I should have some sort of money to give you,” 
says poor Sophie, miserably — “ but now ” 

“ It’s a blue look-out, no doubt,” says Mr. Butler, with 
the utmost cheerfulness. He stretches himself out upon 
the grass at her feet. “ But I expect we’ll survive it.” 

‘‘I don’t see how,” says Sophie. “ We haven’t a penny 
between us, and you are going away to-morrow, and ” 

“And I’ll forget you,” continues he, contemptuously, 
“ and marry another girl — isn’t that what you’re going to 
say ? ” 

“ Indeed it is nothing of the kind,” says Sophie, indig- 
nantly. “ There, take your head off my lap. What an 
idea ! If I thought you would ever even look at another 
girl, I’d— I’d ” 

“ Go on ! ” says he. “What would you do? ” 

“Nothing!” says she. “And I sha’n’t have to do it 
anyway — because, I know you will love me, as I love you 
— always ! There, put your head back.” 

“ In a moment,” says Mr. Butler. 

It is a long moment ! It contains a very tender passage ! 

“ I say, Sophie ! ” says he, presently, “ why can’t you 
cut all this, and marry me at once ? I’ve got something^ 
you know, and I’ll work. I’ll w^ork hard, and though I 
haven’t got much interest still I think I shall get on.” 

“ To be a burthen on you ! ” 

“You’re going back to the story book fudge again. 
Now, do think it out ; you see if you wait forever Sir Fell 
won’t let you marry me. He’ll stick on to that money, of 
course. He’s like that ! And in between he’ll worry you 
to death. Can’t you marry me, and try and let us do 
with the little money I have, until I can make more ? To 
tell you the truth, I can’t bear to leave you ! ” 

“ I should like to,” says Sophie, “but we ought to wait, 
I think. After all, Denis,” — thoughtfully — “you have 
never actually asked Sir Fell about marrying me.” 

“ True ! ” says Denis. “ Any use, do you think ? ” 

“ No,” — dismally — “ I don’t. He would only be horrid 
to you. At least, I suppose so. He was always horrid 

about Cyril . However,” — quickly — “ that’s different. 

He couldn’t bear Cyril — who could ? — but as to you — you 
are ” 


NonA cnsmA. 


m 


She pauses and sighs. 

“ Just so ! ” says Mr. Butler, filling up the blank com- 
placently. “ I know I’m all I ought to be. All any one 
could desire of me. But, in the meantime, I don’t believe 
Sir Fell regards me as an eligible and, to be just all 
round, I don’t see how he could. We had better give up 
thinking of Sir Fell, Sophie.” 

“Yes. I suppose so. But,” — slowly — “there is Mi- 
randa.” 

“ My darling girl, Miranda must see as well as Sir Fell 
that I am an impecunious fellow ! ” 

“ Yes, but Miranda likes you,” says Sophie. “ She 
hated Cyril, but she likes you — who wouldnH? She dis- 
trusted Cyril ; she believes in you.” 

“ ‘ Who wouldn’t ’ ? ” quotes Butler, copying her tone 
to a nicety. 

“Well,” pinching his ear very severely, which is lying 
very convenient to her hand; “she is right, isn’t she? 
One may believe in you, eh ? ” 

“ Oh, yes. Good heavens ! Yes ! ” shrieks Mr. Butler, 
seizing her hand to prevent further atrocities. “ But ^yho 
could believe in you ? I feel as if I were at school again 
after a severe boxing.” 

“ I don’t believe you ever got a boxing you didn’t richly 
deserve,” says Sophie. “ But come back to the point, do. 
It’s so silly of you to be frivolous, when our lives are in 
our hands as it were ! ” 

“ Whose hands ? Y ours ? V ery hard little hands,” says 
he, rubbing his ear. “ Well, go on. So Miranda is on our 
side, eh ? ” 

“In a way. She says she knows you are honestly in 
love with me ! ” Here they both laugh, and there is an- 
other “ moment.” 

“ And the funniest part of it all is,” says Sophie, “ that 
Miranda openly declares she was never in love herself in 
her life, so what can she know about it ? ” She laughs 
again as at some irresistible thought. “ Fancy Miranda 
in love ! ” says she. 

Denis becomes the fixed image of despairing thought. 

“ Ask me an easy one,” says he at last. 

“ After all,” says Sophie, regretful — rather late it must 
be confessed — “one shouldn’t laugh at her. She is as 
good as gold.” 


J^OnA CBmJSTA. 


JiOO 


“ And as heavy as lead.” 

At this they both laugh afresh, as though no word of 
censure with regard to that laughter had been said. 

She’s likeable, I admit that,” says Butler presently, 
as if ashamed of himself. ‘‘ I agree with you that one 
shouldn’t jeer at her. She’s good. She’s kind. She’s 
honest, I think. She,” he pauses. “ She has one great 
qualification, at all events,” says he. “ She,” — solemnly 
— “ must be an awful trial to Sir Fell.” 

At this brilliant burst of wit, they both roar, in the 
high, gay, light-hearted way of youth, when it is cracking 
jokes at the expense of its elders. Sophie’s and Butler’s 
mirth, however, is short lived. 

‘‘ Oh, hush ! Jltish ! ” says somebody just behind them. 
***** 


CHAPTER LIIT. 

“ O ! had I all the flocks that graze 

• On yonder yellow hill, 

Or lowed for me the numerous herds 
That yon green pasture fill, 

With her I love I’d gladly share 
My kine and fleecy store. 

A/i, Graith mo-chroidhe, mo chailin og, 

Si mailligh mo stoiry 

It is Nora. A breathless Nora, panting, pink, with 
startled eyes. 

‘‘ He’s coming. He’s here ! Bun,, Denis, run ! ” 

‘ A word to the wise is sufficient.’ ” Mr. Butler is 
wise. He springs to liis feet. 

“ What ! the Storming Party? ” asks he. 

“Sir Fell. Yes,” says Nora. “I saw him in the lower 
part of the garden talking to Daddledy. They were 
scolding each other very hard. I think Daddledy won 
the victorj^, because Sir Fell turned sharply away, and 
charged up the path that leads to this place. He will be 
furious with Sophie if he finds you here. He had a scene 
last night with Miranda about you, and if Daddledy has 
given him a bit of his own cross old mind, we shan’t know 
how to manage him. Go, Denis. Bo go ! ” 

“ After all, I won’t ! ” says Butler with determination. 


l^OttA CBMJsrA, 


Sol 

“ Vm tired of running away from him. What good does 
it do ? And why should I run ? I don’t care a fig for his 
tempers.” 

“ Ah, but we do ! ” says Sophie. 

‘‘You needn’t do it any more, anyway,” says Denis. 
“ You know what I’ve been saying. Throw in your lot 
with mine, and put an end to this tyranny. Say one 
word, Sophie, and let me stay here, and speak to him 
about it ! After all, why shouldn’t you marry me ? ” 

“ I have told you,” says Sophie, with a quick, impatient 
movement. “ Do you think I want to ruin you ? There, 
go. Go^ Denis ! ” giving him a little shove. “ Oh ! ” with 
a backward glance, “ he is coming. He will visit it all on 
me. Denis, darling, if you love me, 

This is a magic word. Butler, catching her in his arms, 
gives her an . eager kiss, after which he gathers up his 
loins and fiees “ over the garden- wall.” 

Not a moment too soon ! 

“ Where is he ? ” asks Sophie, in a subdued tone, allud- 
ing to Sir Fell. 

“ ’Sh ! — Here ! ” says Nora ; and, indeed she and Sophie 
have barely time to slip on to the grass and assume the 
expression of two angels lost in heavenly thought, when 
Sir Fell comes round the corner. 

If he had expected to find something worthy of an out- 
burst of wrath, he is mistaken. Here, is only an inno- 
cent bit of grass, a blue sky, two mild, serenely thought- 
ful girls, and a big basket of most excellent grapes. 

After all, their arrangements were not quite perfect. 
They had forgotten the grapes. 

“ H’m. Hah ! ” says Sir Fell, with all the air of “ Fee 
Fo Fum.” “ I thought I heard a man’s voice here.” As 
he speaks, he beats the bushes near him with his stick. 

“ I don’t think Nora’s voice is specially masculine,” says 
Sophie, mildly; “Nora, however, was saying something 
just now.” 

“ ‘ Prevarication,’ Sophia, ‘ is a mean lie,’ ” - says Sir 
Fell; quoting, evidently, from an ancient copy-book. 
“Nora’s voice — (one of the most unpleasant, by the way, 
that I have ever listened to) — is not a man’s voice. It is 
not a bass — it is a squeak.” 

“Nora’s voice a squeak! ” says the intrepid Sophie, ris- 
ing to her feet as well as the occasion — she is ahvays uy 


m 


CnElNA, 


in arms when there is an attack made upon Nora. “ It is 
the sweetest voice in the world,” says she, indignantly. 

“ Every one knows that. It — it is ” here her wrath 

gets too much for her, and her brain deserts her. “ It is 
as sweet as sugar ! ” says she, with an extra emphasis to 
make up the deficiencies of the comparison. 

“ I don’t like sugar ! ” says Sir Fell, “ if it means Nora’s 
voice.” He has been poking about with his stick, and 
now at last his glance lights on the basket of grapes. 

‘‘Hah! What have we here?” says he. “Grapes!” 
peering into the basket. “ Grapes, eh ? From Saggart- 
more, eh ? ” 

“No! They are from Mr. Butler,” says Sophie. 

“ Butler ? Eh ? Butler,” insolently, as if scarcely be- 
lieving. “ And how did they come here, eh ? Sent them ” 
— sneeringiy — “ by his footman, eh ? ” 

“No. He brought them himself,” says Sophie, coldly, 
defiantly. 

“ Brought them ! Hah ! So now I learn the truth ! 
He has been here then, that beggar, looking after your 
fortune? Here, in my place, where he knows he is un- 
welcome, without a written invitation ? I suppose that 
strikes you as being heroic conduct, eh? Romantic? — 
sentimental ? Pray when did he leave ? As 7 came up ? 
Did he run away then ? Ha ! ha ! ” with his hateful 
chuckle — “ A charming spectacle it must have been, truly. 
A young man fiying from his love, fearing the lash of her 
guardian. A preux chevalier in truth ! ” 

“Do you think he was afraid of you?” asks Sophie, 
who is now very pale, and very sorry she told Denis to 
go away. “ He^ afraid of you ! It was I Avho told him 
to go away. And I am sorry for it now. You talk of a 
la^i — I tell you, he — he ” — choking with anger — “ has a 
lash too. His right arm is as strong as it need be ! ” 

“ Hold your tongue, girl ! ” says Sir Fell, authorita- 
tively — yet it is beyond question, that his voice fails a 
little ; subdues itself, as it were, beneath the girl’s anger. 
The Bully is ever startled by a threat. “ How dare you 
speak so to me,” says he — but the ring in his voice has left 
it — and Sophie, standing erect, defiant before him, daunts 
him even more. “Now, once for all,” says he, blustering 
as well as he can, and using the formula with which he 


NOttA CJEtmiTA. S03 

begins all his dictates — “ Once for all, I forbid you to 

have that pauper here — that beggar — that ” 

And, once for all,” says Sophie, passionately, imitat- 
ing him to perfection — “I forbid you to call Mr. Butler 
by any disrespectful name ! Do you hear ? ” Sophie’s 
usually agreeable eyes are now flashing. 

‘‘ Be silent, you impertinent girl ! ” says Sir Fell. But 
his own eyes fall before hers. As they fall they reach 
the grapes. ‘‘ Hah ! Hum ! ” says he again. “ Fine 
grapes enough ! ” He stoops, and picks up the basket. 
“ Fine indeed ! I presume that misguided young man 
meant them for Lady Fell.” 

He pulls one off the top bunch, and eats it with mani- 
fest appreciation. 

“ Very good ! Very good indeed ! ” says he. “ I shall 
take them to her.” He turns, tucks the basket under his 
arm, and deliberately stalks away. 

“ Well ! ” says Nora — ‘‘ a more disgraceful theft Oh ! 

Sophie, what is it, darling?” 

‘‘ Oh, nothing — nothing,” says Sophie, who is now dis- 
solved in tears — “ only — I meant to keep some for poor 
Denis for to-morrow — and now he will get none — and we 
shall get none — and Miranda will get none either. He 
will eat them all himself.” 

“That occurred to me,” says Nora, sadly. “I felt it, 
as he lifted the basket. He looked greedy ! ” 

“ And to think they came all the way from Bray for 
Mm ! ” says Sophie. 

Her grief breaks forth afresh. It seems to her terrible, 
that these grapes should have come all the way from 
Bray, to go down Sir Fell’s throat ! 


CHAPTER LIV. 


“ I wear a shamrock in my heart 
Three in one, one in three — 

Truth and love and faith, 

Tears and pain and death, 

Oh ! sweet my shamrock is, to me! ” 

Up here, on the top of the hill, the view is lovely. One 
can see the river winding and winding between its fern- 


804 


noUA CUEINA. 


covered banks, with the trees shedding their leaves into 
it, as though they were tears. And so it may be that 
they are ; tears for the summer past — tears for the winter 
so soon to come ! 

Autumnal tints already shoAv themselves. They are 
making warm and beautiful the scented wood. The 
heavy red of the beeches, the yellows of the elms, the 
glorious orange of the horse-chestnuts. All speak of 
Death — ^but how splendidly ! If they are going to their 
graves, these autumn leaves, it is with a high courage, 
truly, and a great magnificence attends their passing. 

Briglit gleams of sunshine falling through these blended 
beauteous tints render them even more exquisite. 

Nora, who has climbed the hill to get away from every 
one, and have commune with her heart alone, stands lost 
in admiration of the charms around her. 

She is glad of the respite. For the past few days — 
ever since her last unfortunate interview in the garden 
with Carnegie indeed — her heart has known no rest. It 
had become plain to her then, that she had betrayed her- 
self, had let Carnegie know all about that sad secret that 
renders her desolate hour by hour. 

The thought that he has thus learned it, is detestable 
to her. To tell him. ,That would be something. Dread- 
ful, horrible — yet something. But that lie should learn 
the truth without connivance on her part, ah ! that is 
worse still. 

She had meant to tell him. Certainly she had meant 
that. But she had not been able to do it. And now her 
‘‘righteous determination” to lay bare to him all the 
truth, formed so many days ago, has been accomplished 
— carried through — but without uny help from her, 

Mr. Carnegie Jcnoics, He knows now all that any one 
need know, of her sad love for Cyril Ferris. 

At this point the poor child buries her face in her hands 
and sobs aloud. 

Yes, yes. Mr. Carnegie knows. It is noticeable that 
she never thinks of the man who truly loves her, by his 
Christian name, whereas she always thinks of Ferris by 
his. Yes, Mr. Carnegie knows now as thoroughly as 
though she had told him, that her first heart’s love has 
been given away. Away from him. Away to Ferris. 

She moves back a little, and as though filled with a 


NonA anEmA. 


305 


curious longing for support in her trouble, she lays her 
arms round two young saplings close to her, and so stands 
looking up to heaven, as if calling upon it for deliverance 
out of all her troubles. 

* * * * # 

It is thus Carnegie sees her. A slender, exquisite 
thing. Clinging to those saplings that are so near akin 
to her in their fragility — their youth 

She is embracing them with both arms. Leaning back 
as if thinking. Thinking ! 

Yanitas^ vanitatum^’' is her inward cry. This cry 
betrays itself in her face. It is pale, sad, hopeless. 

Suddenly she catches sight of Carnegie. She moves 
back a little, though always clutching those friendly 
saplings as if desirous of gaining strength from them. 

She makes a perfect picture standing thus, and Carnegie, 
noting all the loveliness of her, feels the pain in his heart 
grow worse. 

He strides up to her ; she makes a little attempt at 
receiving him, but he waves such courtesies aside. 

« Why did you not tell me ? ” says he, in a low tone, 
but one fraught with passion. 

“ Tell you — tell you ? ” repeats she. She is very pale. 

“Yes. Why did you not tell me at first ? I was worth 
so much consideration at ycwir hands, I suppose ? Any 
honest man is worth that. Why didn’t you tqll me ? ” 

“ Why should I tell you ? ” says she, with a sudden 
swift defiance. “You didn’t care.” 

“I?” 

“ No, you didn’t ! you only wanted me. To marry me ! 
My face pleased you. It has pleased many. I wish,” 
with a terrible look in that same lovely face, “ that I 
could change it — alter it — destroy it ! ” Her thoughts 
have gone to Ferris, and his admiration of her face, and 
all that came of it! A lovely face — a broken heart! 
What has she gained ? 

“ What are you saying ? ” says Carnegie sternly. 

“ It is true. All true ! You knew I did not iove you — 
I told you that : you listened ; you did not even then care 
to ask me if I loved any one else ! ” 

“ Nora ” 

“No — no, no!” throwing out her pretty arms with a 
20 


806 


NORA CREINA, 


gesture full of anger. “ It is true. You asked me nothing ! 
It did not interest you, I suppose ! ” 

“You must be mad to talk to me like this,” says 
Carnegie. 

“I am not mad,” says Nora. “You pretend now that 
you care. But really then^ you didn’t.” 

“ Is that true ? ” asks he, icily. 

She turns upon him a frowning face. Her pallor has 
disappeared. A sharp crimson flush is dyeing her cheeks 
red. Each change of thought makes her the more beau- 
tiful. 

“ True? True .^” repeats she haughtily. 

She looks at him as a little queen might look. 

“ It is not true ! ” says he fiercely — too much in earnest 
to think of apologizing. “There was something said 
that day when I was absurd enough to ask you to marry 
me. Surely then^ I asked you — if — any one had loved you 
before.” 

“ Well ? ” She stands back from him, with her charm- 
ing head uplifted, and a quick disdain upon her lips. “ I 
said, ‘No.’ That was the truth.” 

“ That the truth ! ” He looks at her almost as if he 
would like to kill her, as she stands there before him — 
defying him, defying the love that is throbbing in his heart 
for her, defying his constancy, his truth, his honest desire. 

“ You seem determined to give me the lie,” says she, 
in a cold, metallic little tone, and with a gesture of con- 
tempt. “ But — there is no lie.” She pauses. A great 
spasm of misery contracts her throat. Oh ! that it was 
a lie. How gladly would she have uttered it. “ He — ” 
She looks at him suddenly, and with great anguish on 
his own part he reads there her anguish — the grief that 
lies both in her eyes and voice. “He — never — loved me !” 

“ Still — you should have told me,” says he, feeling 
suffocated. 

“Well, you know it all now,” says the girl wearily. 

“Now — nowT vehemently. “Now, when it is too 
late! ” 

“I can’t see why it should make any difference,” says 
she. 

“ To you ! ” says he hotly. “None to you — ^but to me 

He stops suddenly, as if afraid that the anger 

within him will break loose, and conquer him. “Your 


]^OBA CBEINA, 


307 


heart is not touched ! My going away — my leaving you 
— would doubtless be a relief to you ” 

He stops again, looking at her, waiting for a reply. If 
he had hoped to hear her deny this supposition of his — 
he is disappointed. 

She stands mute before him, with hands clasped, and 
eyes downcast, and pale lips firmly closed. Such a little 
fragile creature, with such a strength of will. 

“ It is better that our engagement should come to an 
end,” says Carnegie, after a long, long study of that down- 
bent face. “ I can see no happiness in it for either you or 
me. With your heart still filled with that — fellow — ” 
— he smothers the adjective — ‘‘ I don’t see how you could 

think ” He makes an impetuous gesture. “Good 

Heavens ! ” says he. “ Why can’t you face it ? Why can’t 
you see that you have had an escape from him ?” 

Nora turns deadly white. 

“You Aaye had an escape,” says he, repeating himself 
almost unconsciously, because so troubled by that sudden 
change of color in her face. 

“ I know that,” coldly. 

“ This fresh engagement of his is hardly to his credit,” 
goes on Carnegie. “Mrs. Vancourt has not only a temper 
but a — fortune.” 

“ And I have only a temper, and no fortune,” says Nora. 
She breaks suddenly into a most cruel laugh ; it seems to 
catch her, and hurt her, shaking all her slender body. “ I 
am poor, indeed,” says she. 

And then, all at once, her laughter ceases. She lifts her 
hands to her face, and l)ursts into a storm of tears. 

Carnegie, not daring, in his present state of mind, not 
caring indeed, to touch her, turns aside. He walks from 
the beech tree underneath which they have been standing, 
to an elm, far over there, but hearing her sobs cease, comes 
back to her. 

“You love him still then?” says he. His voice is very 
low, and calm. 

“ I don’t know,” says Nora. 


308 


Non A CliElNA. 


CHAPTER LV. 

Long thy fair cheek was pale, 

Eire a ruin, 

Too well it spake thy tale, 

Eire a ruin, 

Fondly nursed hopes betrayed. 

All anguish there portrayed, 

Eire a ruin.''' 

“You don’t know?” says Carnegie; his tone almost 
contemptuous. Yet lie would have given all his posses- 
sions to be able to take her in his arms at this moment, and 
soothe away her grief. 

Ho'w ?i\\\ 1 to know?” says Nora. “It is impossible 
to know. I think him false — dishonorable.” She con- 
fesses this bravely, but the confession seems to tear a hole 
in her heart. “ And yet,” says she faintly, “.to so think 
of him — you can see— that it — hurts me ! ” 

She lifts her hand and lays it on her heart. She has 
grown so deadly Avhite that terror seizes upon Carnegie, 
She looks indeed as though “ Siva, the Destroyer,” had 
laid his hand upon her. 

Presently the color comes back to her face. 

“ To acknowledge him as false — to know him dishonor- 
able — that is the beginning of the end,” says Carnegie 
slowly. ' “ The strongest love in the world could scarcely 
outlive that ! I am satisfied there ! And now — one more 
question.” 

“ Oh ! no ! ” says she, faintly. , Something in his air per- 
haps, the quick light in his eyes, warns her about this 
question. 

“Yes. One! ” persists he with determination. If her 
first lover had been weak and vacillating, her second lover 
is certainly strong, and goes always to the point. 

“ Do you think, Nora — answer me straight noAV — do you 
think it possible, that in the future, you could ever love 
me, as you thought you loved him ? ” 

He could not refrain from that thought. A sort of 
mad desire to disbelieve in her love for Ferris possesses 
him. 

“ What a ridiculous question,” says Nora, drawing in 
her breath, 


y^ORA CREINA, 309 

‘‘ Answer it, however ! ” He is standing before her, tall 
and stern. 

“ How can I ? What do I know about the future ? ” 
Her slim hands clasp each other, and she moves her head, 
just once, from side to side, as a creature might who has 
been caught and thinks of liberty. 

‘‘ None of us know much, but most of us can form a 
guess. We can all imagine how it will be in the future.” 
His tone is growing sterner every moment. ‘‘ You seem 
to me to have a great deal of imagination. Well ? ” 

He is looking at her, frowning, inexorable. After one 
swift glance at him, she remains silent. It is a battle 
d deux, 

“ Ausioer me ! ” says Carnegie, imperiously. 

“ I shall not ! ” returns she, slowly. 

“ That is useless,” says Carnegie ; his passion, his grief, 
his rage against his own fate is now so strong, that he 
sweeps all barriers aside, and, though knowing his own 
strength, still deliberately uses it against her. After all 
it is an easy question to answer. It need not hurt her ; 
but it is safe to hurt Mm, His victory (he has decided on 
victory) will crown his death warrant and not hers. Even 
as he persists, he knows this. It is crying itself aloud in 
his beating heart. He looks at her. 

I am waiting,” says he, icily. 

Nora shakes her head. She would have liked to say 
something, to have defied him to the death ; but words 
fail her. A strange sense of fear has overcome her. The 
hand in which she holds the floAver with which she is 
trifling is trembling visibly, and her lips are white. 

‘‘ Speak ! ” says Carnegie with authority. 

• Suddenly she flings the flower from her with a supreme 
passion. 

“ Must I speak ? ” she turns on him great desperate eyes, 
brilliant with anger, and grief, and all the terrible things 
that go to make up the sum of life’s despair. “ If you vnll 
hear the truth then — hearitl No, no, no! A thousand 
times ‘ Wo.’ ” 

There is a long pause. A dead silence. At last : 

“What am I to understand by that?” asks Carnegie. 
His tone is quite cal in' now, quite even. 

“ What you will ! ” suddenly. 

At this wswer his wrath overpours. To treat him like 


310 


NORA CREINA, 


this ! lie, who had loved her honestly when that other 
devil had given her a love only worthy of disdain. Yet 
to that fellow’s memory she gives a kinder regard than 
to his present love. 

Carnegie for the first time in all his sober life feels a 
little mad. He turns upon her with somewhat distended 
nostrils, and a rather violent manner. 

“How dare you speak to me like that?” cries he, catch- 
ing her hands and holding her. “ Am I nothing ? — is all 
the world only /tini? — That damned fellow who loved 

you just so long as it suited him. He ” Nora at this 

moment makes a violent effort to release herself from him, 
but he holds her fast. 

“No, stay! stay and hear me!” says Carnegie. “I 
have called him a devil, but what are you? What have 
you done to me? you have ruined my life, destroyed me. 
Where am I to look if I leave you behind me ? There is 
no beyond then — nothing ! ” 

He pauses. She is standing quite still. In all her 
face is not one drop of blood. 

“Did you never think of me^ when thinking of him?” 
demands he, passionately. “ Have I had no feeling ? Did 
you never think I could love you better than he could ? 
Have you a heart at all! There ! go ! ” 

He releases her. “ What a fool — what an idiot I must 
be — to love you — as — ” his passion dies away, despair 
marks the quiet of the end of his sentence — “ as I do ! ” 

“ I — I — you are unfair to me,” says Nora, in a stifled 
tone. She makes a step forward. He intercepts her. 

“ Unfair to you ? If And you to me ? How is that ? ” 

She would have passed by him but again he prevents 
her. 

“ You to talk of unfairness ! ” cries he, suddenly. “And 
to me ! I — who could kill you ? ” 

He is ghastly. The girl can see that. And what a 
strain he is laying on himself. 

“ Pshaw,” says he, suddenly, “ you are not worth it. 
There, go — go ! ” 

He draws back as if to let her pass him by. 

But Nora, as if ri vetted to the spot, makes no stir. 
She is looking at him (though he is certainly not looking 
at her) like one mesmerized. This change in him ! This 
outburst ! This new phase of his character ! She is lost 


NOBA CBEINA. 


311 


in a wild conjecture. Is this the Mr. Carnegie she has 
known — or another ? 

She had up to this regarded him as a usual — a very 
usual person, calm, stolid — a little too stolid, perhaps, but 
certainly a person to be relied on. She had not for a mo- 
ment doubted the genuineness of his affection for her 
(she had always called it affection — not love), but she had 
always marked that affection at a low price. 

It would last probably, she had told herself ; it would 
be constant, true, but it would never rise above a calcu- 
lated level. 

Yes, it would be an affection always. Nemr a passion ! 
He would regard her tenderly, treat her perfectly. Once 
his wife, she would be part of his dignity, and therefore 
(so good he is) he would give her all the courtesies that a 
princess might demand. And when she died 

Well, if she were to die, he would be sorry too ! Very 
sorry ! He would feel an honest regret — a cairn, a gentle 
regret — a regret as calm as himself, and one decorous 
year afterwards he would marry again — just as calmly, as 
tenderly, as decorously. 

This had been her explanation of him up to this pres- 
ent hour. 

But now — now! Now where are all her beliefs, her 
prognostications? Now, looking on this man before her, 
with his white face and angry eyes, her foolish, girlish 
ideas fall asunder. They are smashed to atoms ! 

What a storm, what a tempest has broken out — ^born 
of — evoked by this once calm, silent, presumably unfeel- 
ing, man ! 

She stands staring at him, with frightened eyes, as if 
seeing him for the first time. As indeed, she now does 
see him. 

His passion ennobles him ! His face, handsome always, 
has gained in beauty — in power. His tall and distin- 
guished figure seems to grow. She trembles before it. 
Her eyes fall. She falls back a pace or two, and with a 
nervous gesture seeks support from an old beech tree that 
stands behind her. Her little face is sad to the last de- 
gree. It looks as though never again will gladness viSit it. 

“ Marvell no more altho’ 

The songs I sing do mone, 

For other life than wo, 

I never proved none.’' 


812 


JSIORA CliEINA. 


And indeed, the poor child’s life has been “ wo ” all 
through. 

Carnegie, towering above her, becomes suddenly con* 
scions of the great contrast between them. He, tall, tow- 
ering over her, she, so small — so fragile — so very, very 
pale. 

By what right does he seek to terrify this little crea- 
ture ? And indeed, there is terror in her eyes ! 

His face softens. All at once, in a hopeless sort of way, 
he knows he has forgiven her. He turns aside as if he 
cannot bear to look again upon her, with his new swift 
pardon in his mind. 

“ Forgive me, Nora ! ” says he, frowning still, and star- 
ing at the bank opposite — the dropping leaves of the elm 
— the flying clouds overhead — at anything but her! I 
have been rough, a brute to you — but— — ” 

Oh, no ! No ! ” She breaks into tears again. 

He goes to her, fllled with contrition. 

“ You are all the world to me,” says he, in a choked 
voice. “ I love you better than my life — ^^ind yet — I 
have made you cry. You will think of that always. 
You will never forget that — I have hurt you ” 

“ Don’t mind me ! ” says she, half childishly, wholly 
forlornly, checking her sobs, and biting her lips. “ And 
besides,” bravely, “ I am not crying now.” 

“No?” He draws his Angers softly across her long, 
wet lashes. 

“ Well — it is not your fault,” says she, flushing. 

“ No. I suppose not ! ” His face darkens — hardens 
again. No, not for him her tears are shed, he tells him- 
self. “ But after all, it was I who drove you to tears ! ” 
says he. “ But for me, you would not have cried to-day. 
And why should I torment you? Why should I annoy 
you with my worries ? It is my own affair all through. 
I should not have spoken so to you. It does not touch 
you. Why should you care ? I have forgotten myself. 
But I ask you to forgive me, as it is a last offence.” He 
pauses and then goes on more steadily. “ I shall not 
trouble you again. We shall make an end of it all to-day. 
You and I — and here ! ” 

“You mean ?” says she. 

“ To give you back your liberty ; to set you free. To 
make you happy again,” says he gently. 


NORA CREINA, 


313 


It is the old gentleness. After the one break in it, it 
comes back to her with a greater sweetness in it than she 
had ever recognized l)efore. 

She says nothing. She is thinking. A very big space 
out of her past life seems to be widening before her ; and 
in it stand out clearly one lover — and — ohq friend! 

She has lost her lover — is she to lose her friend too ? 
Are all things to go from her ? And this friend I This 
friend who loves her, though she can’t love him ! To lose 
this kind friend ! 

How few are they who love her ! Sophie. Only Sophie ! 
And what of Miranda ? — well yes, Miranda loves her too, 
perhaps. But there are only these two in all the world 
who would care whether she lived or died except — except 
this man who is looking at her now, with sad, reproachful 
eyes. 

‘‘ You will forgive me, Nora ? ” says he. 


CHAPTER LVI. 

“Waiting, sad, dejected, weary, 

Waiting for the May. 

Spring goes by with wasted warnings, 

Moonlight evenings, sunbright mornings, 

Summer comes, yet dark and dreary 
Life still ebbs away. 

Man is ever weary — weary. 

Waiting for the May ! ” 

“You make me feel so guilty!” says Nora, in a low 
voice, twisting her fingers nervously. “ It is you who 
have to forgive ! I know that. I feel it. I wish — I wish 
I could be more to you — but,” suddenly — “ Don’t go. 
Don’t leave me ! ” 

‘‘JVot leave He looks at her amazed. A quick, 

dark fiush reddens his brow. He had believed she would 
be glad of her release, and now, she is entreating him to 
stay ! 

“ No. Don’t. Try not to hate me. If you love me, 
and,” — gazing at him anxiously, as if trying to read his 
face — “ you do^ don’t you ? ” 

She pauses, as if hanging on his reply, and he makes a 
little moyeinent of assent, W ords are beyond him ! How 


314 


NORA CREINA, 


can he answer her calmly, quietly, with her little, lovely 
face gazing into his with such sad earnestness in it? He 
feels choked. If she loved him, and feared to lose him, 
she would be looking at him just like this. The situation 
is perfect for tJmt part. And — oh ! the irony of it — it is 
perfect for this part too, where love has found no resting 
place for his foot. 

“ Well ! Then you will like to stay with me,” says she, 
with conviction. She says it quickly. “ Although,” for- 
lornly, ‘‘ I know I am a great trouble to you.” 

“The greatest trouble of my life! ” replies he, bitterly. 
“ And yet the greatest joy. I will stay if you wish, Xora. 
But,” gravely, “ what is the good of my staying ? What 
is to be the outcome of it ? You may marry me — you 
probably icill marry me — feeling lonely now. But you 
don’t love me, and — probably again — you never will love 
me. It is a risk. A horrible risk. For I tell you this,” says 
he — turning quickly to her — “ a time comes for every one in 
this life — a time to love. And if, when married to me, 
your heart awoke again for another — and not for me — Yo. 
N o ” breaking off hurriedly. “ It would be too danger- 

ous an experiment for you — and me ! ” 

“My heart will not awake again ! ” says she, listlessly, 
sadly, drearily. 

Perhaps, indeed, she hardly realizes the meaning of her 
words. 

“ That is encouraging,” says he with a curious laugh. 
“ On the head of that declaration, you would still advise 
me to marry you.” He looks at her strangely. “ It is 
astonishing ! ” says he at last. “ You elect to mkrry me. 
I am to be your husband, yet of all men in this abomin- 
able earth I am the one you think least about. Good 
Heavens ! Surely I am worth a little consideration! ” 

“ But I want you to know how it is. I want you ” 

He interrupts her. 

“Better,” says he, gloomily, “ to end it all now. Koav, 
at once. For your sake! I think of you, Yora, though 
you never think of me. You will be happier when I 
cease to be part of your life.” 

There is a slight pause then. 

“ As you will,” says the girl, coldly. 

He turns away from her and goes down the hill. He is 
quite determined now. His heart is full of a great 


mnA cnmi^A. gl5 

strength — the strength of renunciation. It lasts him about 
a minute and a half, then he stops. 

To pause is always fatal. Carnegie, like that poor Mrs. 
Lot, looks back ! 

And there is Nora. A silent, beautiful Nora, with her 
hands clasped loosely before her, and her blue skirts 
swayed by the wandering wind. 

So sweet she looks, that his heart dies within him. 
IIoic can he leave her? And yet to stay! What is she 
to him ? What can she ever be ? 

“Light as the foam that flecks the seas, 

Fitful as summer’s sunset breeze, 

As transient as morning dew. 

Mere waste of time.” 

For all that he goes back to her, and takes her hands 
and crushes them passionately against his breast. 

“ I cannot leave you, Nora,” says he. “ My life is 
bound up in yours. I have no life without you. Yet — 
one thing, Nora. Tell me one thing.” 

He lets her hands go, and taking her face between his 
palms turns it to him. He, by a slight gesture, a very 
gentle one, compels her to return his gaze, to look from 
her eyes into his. 

“ You feel no dislike about marrying me? You feel no 
repugnance? Be honest with me in this,” entreats he. 

“ I shall be honest always,” says the girl, tears spring- 
ing to her eyes — the eyes looking into his. And yet she 
hesitates. Hesitates fatally. It seems to her as though 
she cannot speak. As though her tongue is cleaving to 
the roof of her mouth. How to express her meaning ? 
At last she forces herself to speak : but when she does so, 
her w’ords are meaningless. “ Dislike? No, no,” mutters 

she. “But ” she breaks off miserably — Nothing 

seems to matter ! ” cries she wildly, bitterly. “ And you 
— you are always kind.” 

He drops her hands as if stung. 

“ I see ! I understand ! Yes, I shall always be kind to 
you. You may depend upon so much, Nora.” He points 
towards where the tall chimneys of her house can be 
seen. “ You can find your own way back ? ” 

“Yes, yes. But — you are angry with me again?” 

“ No,” gloomily. “ I have been angry with you once 


muA cnmnA, 


81 G 

too often, to-day I shall never be angry with yoi3 
again.” 

Ah ! that means ” 

‘‘It means nothing,” says he distinctly. “And even if 
it did, what harm is done? You need not care. Noth- 
ing matters to you say ! ” 

He turns and walks rapidly down the hill, leaving the 
slight blue-robed figure gazing after him with some new, 
strange, wild discomfort tearing at her breast. 


CHAPTER LVII. 

“ The power and the splendor of thrones pass away.” 

After a full hour’s inconsequent wandering through 
the woods, she turns her steps homeward, her arms laden 
with upland spoil, long sprays of the blackberry bush, 
now just turning crimson, and tender lichens, the strong, 
straight branches of the bracken fern, and a handful of 
the gaudy yellow toad-flax. 

There is a big old jar in the hall in which she can 
arrange all these treasures, and it has given her a relief 
from her late troubled thoughts to gather them. 

The hall door is wide open ; this strikes her as strange 
— and stranger still is the deadly silence of the hall as she 
enters it. When she has got as far as the hanging lamp, 
she stops, realizing all at once that there is something. 
That something has happened. But what ? 

There may or may not be such occult things as presenti- 
ments, but it is certain that at this moment Nora feels a 
sense of coming evil. It falls upon her heart. 

She stands quite still, with a frightened, expectant look 
upon her face — the autumn trophies of her walk still 
clasped in her hands. 

How deadly, deadly silent it all is ! She trembles. She 
takes a step forward, and then stops again and suddenly 
cries : 

“ Sophie ! ” in a quick, sharp, agonized way. 

Almost as she utters the name — in answer to it, as it 
were, the library door opens, and Sophie comes slowly 
into the hall. It is plain that she had not heard Nora, 


NOBA CBEmA. Sl7 

however, because she starts as she sees her, and goes 
quickly to her. 

“ Sophie — Sophie ” 

“ Oh ! Hush ! hush ! ” cries Sophie in a terrified whisper, 
making an ipipressive upward movement with her hands. 
She is as white as her usual soft ruddiness will permit, 
and her eyes are distended as though by a great shock. 
There are traces of tears on her cheeks, and her lips are 
tremulous. 

‘‘What? What is it?” gasps Nora, shrinking away 
from her. Her very soul seems dying within her. 

It is death ! Of that she is sure. But whose death. 
Not Cyril’s ! Oh ! not his, that would be too impossible. 
There is a limit placed to unhappiness as well as happi- 
ness, and oh — that could not be, and — and it could not 
be — his — Mr. Carnegie’s — either. Why, she had seen him 
only an hour ago. 

Strangely enough, her thoughts never go nearer home. 
Sophie is before her, and Miranda ! She has grown very 
fond of Miranda, but who could ever think of Miranda as 
even ill ? And as for Sir Fell 

“Come in here, Nora,” says Sophie, opening once again 
the library door. 

“ No. Tell me here — now ! ” 

The agony in Nora’s face frightens Sophie. 

“It is Sir Fell ! ” says she, in alow, faint tone. “ Come 
— come, I tell you, in here, and you shall know all.” 

She draws Nora into the library. 

“ ^ir Fell ! ” says Nora. “ He is ill then ? An accident, 
Sophie ?” She has grown calm again to a certain extent, 
but still looks frightened. 

“ Oh, 'worse than that.” Sophie’s voice has sunk even 
lower now, now that the strain of the first telling has 
worn off. It has sunk very low — to that sad whisper in- 
deed that comes as if by instinct even to the very youngest, 
and least experienced in death’s sad offices — when the 
last shadow of all lies over a house. 

“ He is dead, Nora ! ” says she solemnly. 

“Dead!” Nora looks at her as if not understanding. 
“ Dead ! Sir Fell is dead! ” It seems so impossible that 
Sir Fell should ever be dead. 

“ Oh ! yes. Oh, yes ! ” says Sophie, breaking into bitter 
weeping. She had not cared for the dead man, she had 


818 


l^OliA CTtMNA. 


perhaps disliked him even more than ordinary ; but now 
the great King Death has touched her, and frightened her 
into tears. 

‘‘ Dead,” says Kora again, as if stunned. 

‘‘Yes. Yes^ I tell you!” in great agitation. “We 
found him, Miranda and I. Oh, Kora! ” She presses her 
hands to her eyes, as if to shut out some horrid sight. 
“ It was dreadful — dreadful. I never saw any one dead 
before ! And his face ! Oh ! oh ! ” 

This sudden renewal of the awful distress she has been 
enduring, and which she has so bravely kept down with 
a view to breaking the direful news gently to her sis- 
ter, renders her almost incapable of thought for the mo- 
ment. 

Kora goes to her, and throws her arms round her. She 
squeezes her to her in the tenderest embrace. Tier own 
fear has been overcome in the thought of Sophie’s fear. 

All that Sophie has had to bear whilst she has been 
plucking flowers in the wood comes home to her, with a 
miserable sense of selfishness on her own part. And yet 
she had not known. She feels somehow as though she 
should have known. 

“Don’t talk. Don’t! Sit down,” says she. “Oh, 
Sophie darling, to think you should you have been there. 
What a shock ! ” 

“Yes, it was a shock.” 

“ Then don’t talk about it.” 

“ Oh ! I must,” says Sophie. “ It is such a relief to me 
to tell you all about it. It was his heart, the doctor 
said.” 

“ His heart ! ” The expressive emphasis is involuntary, 
She had suffered a good deal at his hands. “ The doctor 
said that ? ” 

“Yes. Something wrong with it. He died quite 
quietly.” 

“ He died.” Kora repeats the words mechanically. 
He died — he is dead. It is so small a measure of time 
since last she saw him, well, full of health and years 
apparently. And now he is dead. 

Sophie has been talking in a miserable, idle sort of 
way. 

“We sent at once ; but the doctor was out — a visit to 
Mrs. Somers, I believe. When he came, he said the heart 


NOB A CBBINA. 


310 


must have been bad for years. He examined him ; but it 
was no use. He was quite dead ! Oh, Nolly, I wish we 
had not been so — that is, I wish we had been nicer to 
him.” 

‘‘So do I,” says Nora. They are both as much stricken 
with remorse for their justifiable dislike to the late Sir 
Fell, as though that late Sir Fell, who in his lifetime had 
dwarfed and desolated their lives, had been a saint, mar- 
tyred by their misconduct. 

“You found him?” asks Nora, after a long pause, and 
an awed tone. 

“Yes,” shuddering. “Miranda and I — after luncheon. 
We had had a little argument about one of those late ger- 
aniums, she and I, and we agreed to go straight to the 
conservatory and see who was right. We went there, 
and — right at the end we saw Sir Fell — in that old, long 
wicker chair ! You know it?” 

“Yes ; I know it.” 

“ And Miranda said, ‘ There is Sir Fell.’ He looked 
quite natural! I never thought of anything! We 
went on — down the conservatory, to where the ger- 
anium was, that we wished to see, and suddenly, as we 
were looking at it, Miranda turned round and looked at 
Sir Fell again, and said to me, ‘ I believe he is asleep.’ 

“ ‘Yes, asleep,’ said I. Oh! Nora, at that distance he 
looked asleejj. Oh ! why should sleep be so like Death ? 
And then Miranda looked at him again. 

“ ‘ To sleep at this hour,’ she said — she said it in a dis- 
gusted sort of way. Oh ! I wish she JiadnH now. ‘ I do 
despise people,’ she said, ‘who have nothing to do but 
sleep all day. J’ZZ rouse him.’ She went up to him. Oh ! 
Oh ! ” says Sophie, breaking off and bursting into tears 
afresh. 

“ Sophie, tell me. She — she did not ” 

“ Yes, she says Sophie, sobbing violently. 

“ After that, she went up and touched his arm. She — 
she — sJiooJc him — and it was a violent, angry shake, and 
he — Oh ! Nolly, I shall never forget, never — never. Oh ! 
my God — he fell forward — at her feet — she shook him 
forward, and he fell at her feet, and he was dead — dead / 
It was a stone, a cold, frozen bit of fiesh, that rolled over. 
And her scream — her scream ” 

“ Sophie ! Sophie ! ” 


320 


NOBA CREINA. 


Nora twines her arms round her, and draws her down 
upon a couch. Sophie buries her face in her sister’s 
bosom, as if with a desire to shut out that last, terrible, 
never-to-be-forgotten sight. 

“You should think, Sophie ! You should take courage. 
Think of Miranda. Oh ! what it must have been to her.” 

“ After that last speech. Ah ! she has dwelt on that,” 
says Sophie, lifting her eyes to look round her in a 
nervous sort of fashion, as if expecting to see something 
behind her. “ She has taken that to heart. I know — I 
know,” trembling, “that if he had been alive she would 
have said just the same thing, all that about his doing 
nothing and being an idler, you know, Nolly ; but now, 
that he is dead ! it sounds so dilferent, doesn’t it ? How 
strange that death should make so great a difference.” 

“ It does — it does,” says Nora. “ And then you 'went 
on ? You went up to him ? ” 

“ Yes,” shuddering afresh. “ Quite up to him. Mi- 
randa, Avhen he fell, knelt down and raised his head. I 
don’t think she knew — at first — but I did. I don’t know 
how I knew, but I did.” 

“ And Miranda ? She didn’t ? ” 

“ Oh ! I don’t know whether she did or not. I had only 
the impression. I think she didn’t, because she raised 
his head, and she didn’t look frightened for a while, 

though afterwards But I knew. 1,” sobbing now, 

without tears. “ I did, Nora. Oh ! ” passionately, “ what 
lies people tell about death — what lies one hears about the 
dead looking just like life — just as usual — just like one 
sleeping — with a smile — a natural smile upon their lips ! 
He was smiling too. At least,” trembling violently now, 
“ I suppose they would call that awful look upon his lips 
a smile ; but it was not a smile, Nora. It,” with a sud- 
den clasping of her hands over her eyes, “ it was a cirin ! ” 

Nora holds her closely to her. 

“ Oh, Nolly, Nolly ! Don’t leave me, Nolly,” cries 
Sophie, clinging frantically to her. “ Oh, where were you ? 
I thought you would never come home. And Miranda 
went away ; and then, w^hen I couldn’t stay here any 
longer, I thought I would go out and find you. And then 
you were in the hall ; and I w^as afraid you would be 
frightened ; but,” gasping, “ it is I who am frightened — I— 


NOBA CUmKA. 


8^1 


Come upstairs,” says Nora gently, quietly, although 
she too is trembling. All things are reversed between 
them. It is Nora now who is strong — Sophie who is weak. 
It is Nora who is conquering herself to save her sister’s 
strength. 

‘‘No, no,” says Sophie, drawing back. “He — he is 
upstairs ! ” 

“ Is — he — there ? ” asks Nora. She shudders. It seems 
to herself now a very desirable thing to stay t?(9^^’??stairs, 
but a sudden thought comes to her. 

“ Miranda ! ” says she, with quick remorseful remem- 
brance. “ Where is she ? ” 

“ With him, I think ! ” nervously. 

“ Oh ! Poor Miranda ! I must go to her,” says Nora. 
“ Come up to our room, Sophie, and I’ll send some one to 
stay with you, while I go to look for Miranda.” 

“ You will go — there ” asks Sophie, shivering. 

“ I shall go to the door,” says Nora, in a rather quak- 
ing tone. 


CHAPTER LYIII. 

“ Thou red-breast singest the old song over, 

Though many a time thou hast sung it before ; 

They never sent thee to some strange new lover — 

I sing a new song by my mother’s door. 

I stepped from my little room down by the ladder, 

. The ladder that never so shook before ; 

I was sad last night — to-day I am sadder. 

Because I go from my mother’s door.” 

The midnight hour has struck ! Slowly, slowly — surely 
more slowly than usual to-night, as if in decent accord- 
ance with the late terribly sudden death in the house, 
have the chimes from the old tower rung out the twelve 
solemn numbers. 

Nora starts as she hears them ; she pulls the curtains 
aside, and gazes out into the starry night. 

She had persuaded Sophie to go to bed. Sophie ! who 
was frightened, overdone, and nervous, but who had 
resisted the thought of bed to the last. But at the 
last she had given in, and had been undressed by Nora 

21 


322 NOUA cumka, 

and tucked up in her bed by her, and is now sleeping the 
sleep of the just. 

To Nora, on this sad night, sleep seems impossible. 
She had spent a long time with Miranda, and had brought 
her downstairs, and made her eat — and had learned from, 
her, that she would sit up all night in the death chamber. 

“He wasn’t altogether a comfortable sort of body,” 
said Miranda, mournfully, “but he might have been 
worse ; and I’m sorry now, Nora, that I was a trifle short 
with him at times. After all, you know, he couldn’t help 
it. He was born like that.” 

Miranda’s form of regret took a queer shape, but it was 
sincere all the same. 

Nora had comforted her a good deal by telling her that 
she would not go to bed either. Miranda, instead of com- 
bating that decision, had clung to it. It seemed such a 
blessing that there would be one sympathetic soul in the 
house wide awake, to whom she could go at times, and 
make her remorseful moan. And “ after all,” as she said 
practically, “ the loss of one night’s rest never killed any- 
body.” “ After all ” is a formula of Miranda’s. She 
begins and ends most of her sentences with it. 

It is late in September, and the night is chilly ; the 
fires have been kept uj) all over the house ; and Nora, 
having flung aside her gown, has put on a loose dressing- 
gown — a warm one — a very long one — given her by 
Miranda, as a sort of defiance to the coming winter. 

She has been wandering to and fro all night. Meeting 
Miranda in her own — or else in the morning-room — where 
she had given her a cup of coffee half an hour ago, and 
had made her promise to lie down a bit. She looked so 
exhausted ! Now she finds herself in the library, the 
cosiest room in the house, and finding it ablaze with lamps 
and the fire, a perfect picture, has sunk slowly into a big 
lounging chair. 

She has almost passed from this work-a-rlay world into 
the land of dreams, when a step behind her brings her to 
her feet at once. 

The step ! she knows it ! 

“You — you!” stammers she, as Carnegie comes to- 
wards her, noiselessly, across the thick carpet. 

“ Yes ! I had only just heard — ^I was dining out, miles 
away, at the O’Connors’.” His manner is jerky and nervous. 


NOB A CBEINA. 


322 


“ But when I came home and one of the men told me, I 
felt I should like to come over here and see if I could help 
you all in some way. I thought — to see Lady Anketell.” 

This is a mere concession to les convenances — he looks 
as if he never wanted to see any one again but Nora. 

And indeed at this moment Nora — always lovely — has 
touched the point of beauty perfected ! Her long white 
robe (one of Miranda’s numerous gifts, who loves to deck 
the girl, and so rejoice in her beauty), clinging to her 
X^retty form, accentuates its charms. The white cache- 
mire, and the white fur, and out of all that the soft pale 
face arising. . . and the little hands, fair and pale too 

— and clasped 

The gown is beautiful ; one a little princess might have 
worn ; but the face ! He tells himself, silently gazing at 
her, that the gown might be produced again, but the face 
never — Never ! ” 

And that little touch of sleex3 in the sweet eyes ! . . . . 

‘‘ Miranda is lying down,” says Nora. “ I have at last 
induced her to try and sleep. She has been on her feet 
all day. She is exhausted.” 

“And you ?” 

“*Yes — I am tired! ” says she simply, as if in answer to 
him.” 

“You ought to be in bed,” says he sharply. “A child 
like you — are they all mad, to let you stay up like this ? 
Where is Sophie ? ” 

“ She — she is in bed too,” says Nora, and then quickly, 
as though afraid of an outburst on his x^art — “ Poor, poor 
Sophie. Hid you know that she was with Miranda when 
— when they found him ? Oh ! think how dreadful it 
must have been for her. She, who had never seen death 
before. I made her go to bed.” 

“ It seems to me,” — wrathfully — “that you have sent 
the whole household to bed except yourself. Was there 
nobody to think of you ? ” 

“Oh! I shall go. I shall lie down presently when 
Miranda has had a little sleep,” says she. She looks at 
him, lifting her lids languidly and smiles. “ Oh, I shall 
be all right,” she says. 

What lovely eyes she has ! What witchery — innocent 
witchery — lies m them ! 

“ Her eyes men beauty call.” 


824 


noha creina. 


“ But to be alone here — alone at this hour ! ” Carnegie 
is wrath iul still. 

“ Oh! don’t mind me,” says she quickly. “And,” with 
a charming smile, “ I am not alone after all, because you are 
with me.” The idea that perhaps he ought not to be with 
her at this hour, just because she is alone, never occurs to 
her. As a fact she is delighted to see him. lie will kill 
her sense of loneliness whilst Miranda sleeps, and be- 
sides — well ! She has already told herself that at all 

events she likes him. 

“But ” There are some qualms of conscience in 

Carnegie’s mind. Some dim rememberings of Avhat 
ought and what ought not to be done. To be here with 
her, alone — at this hour. 

“ Oh ! I know what you are going to say,” says Nora, 
who does not know at all, growing — and looking — de- 
pressed. “But I am afraid I’m not so — so sorry as I 
ought to be. Oh ! Poor Sir Fell ! I know — I know all 
you would say. That,” with a little pathetic gesture, “ he 
was not so sympathetic towards us as he might have l3een. 
But still he is dead ; and ... I wish I could feel 
more about it,” say she, miserably. “ But it won’t come ! 
Miranda and Sophie have been crying all the evening, but 
I — I have not cried at all. I have felt frightened — dread- 
fully frightened, but I can’t cry, so I must be without a 
heart, I think ! ” she pauses. “ Do you think I have no 
heart ? ” asks she. 

“ What a question to ask me ! ” says Carnegie. A red 
flush rises to his brow. “ Do you forget what you told 
me ?” 

“ About — about — Oh, yes ! ” stammers she. “ But it 
was not that sort of heart I was thinking of. “ That was 
a heart,” slowly, “ to feel my own sorrows. But a heart 
to feel for another ! Ah ! that is the true heart ! It 
seems to me,” sighing, “ as though I could only feel for 
myself. I hurt every one — I distress every one — and in 
turn,” — she moves away from him to the window and 
drawing aside the curtains, looks out into the night, “ in 
turn, I, myself, am hurt,” says she, in a Ioav tone. 

The slight figure is turned from him, but he can see the 
trembling of the hand that is clasping the curtain. She 
looks so slight, so fragile in the long white robe — a little 
taller than usual, perhaps, but so very, very delicate. 


NORA CBEINA. 


325 


“ You have been unhappy,” says he, quickly. You 

have suffered, but now ” he pauses, “ now, your good 

time is coming to you. Now you are your own mis- 
tress.” 

“ How ? ” asks she, turning round as if startled, but 
always with her hand upon the curtain. 

“ Of course I know it is very little, ridiculously little,” 
says (Jarnegie ; ‘‘ but still the money is your own and — I 
can understand that you would rather live on it than — 
marry a man who has no claim to your regard. I know 
— I know,” impatiently, in answer to a sudden gesture on 
her part, “ that you Avould not consider that matter now 
— but I shall consider it for you. I have seen all along 
— I have known, even when most I tried to blind myself, 
that you sought marriage with me merely as an escape 
from a worse bondage. It is hard,” in a low tone, and 
with feeling, “ to say all I want to say with that poor old 
fellow dead upstairs, but — I know you were not happy in 
this house, and that any step that could tend to your 
removal from it, you would have been glad to take.” 

I — I ” Nora has come forward into the brilliant 

light of the lamps, now, — her face is very pale, she makes 
a movement with her hand as though to check him, but 
he goes on determinedly : 

That step I supplied. You agreed to marry me, to 
escape from your life here. Life with me, you decided, 
might be better, could” — bitterly — ‘‘not be worse, than 
it was here. I knew it all then, Nora, I felt it ; and I was 
mean enough to take you at your word, yet I entreat you 
to believe in this last hour between us, that I meant well 
to you. I meant — I swear it honestly — to make your life 
a dream of happiness, so far as it lay in my power to do 
so.” He stops — his sudden touch of passion is subdued 
by a powerful will. “ Now, all that is over,” says he. 
“ You have some money and — well — you need not marry 
me because your home is unhappy.” 

Nora has let the curtain go. She comes now right 
across the room to where he is standing. 

“You know nothing — nothing!” says she, almost 
fiercely, “but I shall tell you — I shall tell you — now ! ” 


JSfOIU CIIEINA. 


:G 


CHAPTER LIX. 

“ Were she no longer true, 

Eileen Aroon ! 

What should her lover do, 

Eileen Aroon ? 

Fly*with his broken chain 
Far o’er the sounding main, 

Never to love again, 

Eileen Aroon !” 

“ Yes ; all ! All/ ” says she. She is looking at him — 
her face like death, her eyes like stars ! The white of her 
gown is not whiter than her cheeks, and her lips too have 
lost their sweet, red touch. She looks like a snow-maiden 
to Carnegie, a maiden waiting to be thawed by the fairy- 
lover — hut alas ! alas, he tells himself, he is not the lover ! 

She takes a step forward, and lays her hand upon the 
table. It is a gesture full of meaning. 

‘‘ What is there to tell ? ” says Carnegie. “ And to me ! 
Consider ! I am out of your life from this night forth — • 
why ” 

I wish you to know,” says she. ‘‘ If this should be 
the last time you choose to look on me ” 

‘‘ I — I ,” says Carnegie. 

“ Oh, what does it matter ! ” cries she. “ jSFothing mat- 
ters, except that I want to tell you — that — that — you are 
wrong about my reason for accepting you. It-^it had 
nothing to do with Sir Fell ! I — I consented to marry 
you, because — because he 

Her voice dies aAvay. 

u Ferris ! ” icily, and drawing back from her. 

“Yes. . . .Cyril — because he ” she stops dead short 

* and covers her face with her hands. “ Because he — oh, 
it is hard to say ! ” 

“ Then don’t say it.” Carnegie has gone to her, and 
has laid his hands upon her shoulders. “Why make 
yourself miserable — and for me ? — And — noxo^ too ! Xow,” 
with a slight tremble in his voice, “ when I shall so soon 
be gone out of your life forever.” 

“ You will go. You will go ! ” says she, lifting her 
head. “ I know that — but still, before you go I Avant you 


XOBA CllEINA, 


32 / 


to hem\ I must tell you — it is only fair. I have behaved 
very badly to you ; I — ” pausing, as if bracing herself for 
a great eifort — “Oh, you shall hear! You think I ac- 
cepted you, because I wanted to escape from a step- 
father’s tyranny, but it was not that — I accepted you 
because Cyril Ferris threw me over — because he found 
money was of more worth than love — because — he wished 
to marry Mrs. Vancourt! ” 

Her voice rings clear to the end, but now dies away. 
Her face is ghastly. Yet she stands erect, her hand upon 
the table, her slender figure upraised, her eyes teSrless. 

“ Now you know all,” says she. “ Now — you can go.” 

“ You wish me to go, then ? ” 

He is looking at her. 

But you! — there is no question — you wish to 

go?” 

“ I shall give you your own answer, ‘ No.’ ” 

“ But this is madness,” says Nora. “ I have told you 

how it is, and yet ” in her excitement she comes 

nearer to him, as if to look more closely into his eyes. 

“And yet,” repeats he calmly, steadily, though his 
heart is beating wildly. “ Come, let us get to the end of 
it, Nora. I came here to-night filled with the thought 
that it was the last hour I should spend beneath this roof. 
I had already arranged what I should do. I had decided 
upon Africa.” 

“ Oh, no ! Oh, no ! ” cries Nora, involuntarily. She 
comes nearer to him — nearer still — she is now looking up 
into his face, her lips parted, her face blanched. “ It — it 
is so far away,” says she, in a tone so faint as almost to 
be unheard. 

“ Nora ! Nora ! ” cries Carnegie. He has caught her 
hands, and is holding them in a clasp that must be almost 
hurtful ; yet she says nothing. Her eyes are bent on 
his. 

“ I have no one — no one,” says she, still in that same 
strange whisper. 

It seems to conquer Carnegie — his passion dies away. 
He lightens his grasp upon her hands, and after a second 
or two, lets them fall from his grasp. 

“ What do you mean by that ? ” says he shortly. 

“ If you go — you are my one friend, and if you 
go ! ” 


328 


CEEINA. 


She is trembling from head to foot, the 

“ Silent war of lilies and of roses, 

... In her fair face’s field ” 


fights hard for mastery. 

“ Don't (JO ! ” says she. 

It is the same appeal. He had heard it, or something 
like it, some hours ago. He stirs impatiently. 

“>?ora! Let us understand each other. You ask me 
to stay,M^o wait, on probation as it were. I — it is no proud 
thing to boast of — but I am glad to wait, to hope. But I 
warn you that, though I am a patient man, an end can 
come to my waiting. If you think there can ever be hope 
for me, say so noio ! ” 

“ If,” she tries to draw her hands away from him, but 
he holds them firmly. “ Do not ask me to answer now,” 
says she faintly. 

‘‘ Yes. Now. Note ! and at once,” says he, sternly. 
“You must know your own mmd ! ” 

“ I don’t,” says she, even more faintly still. Her lids 
are downcast ; she has ceased to try to take her hands 
from his. She stands half-turned away from him, with 
the light of the lamp falling warmly on her bowed head, 
her loose, soft hair, her slight, white-robed, slender form 
— and his hands holding hers ! compelling her, as it were, 
making her his own ; takmg possession of her ! 

“You shall,” says he, with a strange force. “Now, 
thinJeP 

“ Oh ! I like you — I told you I liked you,” says the girl, 
feverishly. “ I ” — hesitating — “ I think I am even fond 
of you.” • 

“Ah! You shouldn’t have hesitated — you spoiled it,” 
says Carnegie, with a short, grating laugh, that badly 
conceals the grief and rage at his heart. “ Come, Nora, 
let us understand each other 1 You want me, and you 
don’t want me. Is that it? You want me as a friend, 
but not as a lover ! Is that how it stands ? W ell, let us 
make an agreement ! It shall be all for your good ; I 
shall give you three months — three long months to make 
up your mind about me — to ” 

“ Three months ! Oiily three months ! it is such a short 
time,” says Nora. 


NOEA CEEINA. 


329 


To you ! To 7ne an eternity,” says he, shortly. “ At 
all events, three months it shall be. I have warned you 
I am not a patient man, and yet,” with sudden passion, 
“how I belie myself. Was there eve?* so patient a man? 
I endure all, I wait upon your caprices, I consent to let 
the happiness of my whole life lie fallow in your hands for 
three months, without so much as hope to sustain me 
.... There ! ” abruptly, “ Good-night ! ” 

He turns from her and goes to the door. 

“ Good-night ! ” says she. She runs after him, and 
holds out her hand. Such a lovely little hand, with some- 
thing so nervously friendly about it. 

“ What am I to do with this ? ” says Carnegie, taking 
it in a rather careful fashion, and examining it. Certainly 
it is worth examination. It is a gem of its kind. Per- 
haps its beauty, the very slenderness of it, appeals to him 
— in spite of himself. “ What could one do with it but 
says he, bending and pressing his lips to it. 

He laughs. There is a good deal of bitterness in his 
laugh, and of self-contempt even more ! 


CHAPTER LX. 

“ Though he should sue thee now, 

Eire a ruin, 

Heed not his traitor vow, 

Eire a ruin, 

When did’st thou e’er believe, 

When his false words receive. 

But sorely thou did’ st grieve, 

Eire a ruin 

Time, the fickle, the unsociable, never stays with us. 
It has flown of late with all too eager haste, and already 
winter is upon us — winter, with its thousand discontents. 
Last night it snowed, and to-day is “ dark and dreary,” 
and of a very threatening aspect. 

Those three specified months of probation have drawn 
to a close. Time with them is “ up,” most mercilessly up 
to date indeed ; and Carnegie, with a stern determination 
to face without delay what may be in store for him, is 
buttoning his driving coat over a somewhat sinking heart. 


330 


NOllA CBEINA, 


having made up his mind to go down to Dunmore this 
morning, to learn his fate, once for all. 

It so happens that some one else as well as he has elected 
to put his fortune 

“ To the touch, 

To gain or lose it all.” 

Ferris had run down to the Castle last night. It is his 
first visit there since that evening, when he renounced 
Nora and love, for Mrs. Vancourt and money. He had 
gone to England after that, and had seen a good deal of 
Mrs. Vancourt, perhaps more than he cared for ; so iivuch 
more indeed, that when he heard of Sir Fell’s death — 
news that did not reach him for quite a month after the 
event — he began to dwell, irresolutely at first and then 
more constantly, more persistently, more longingly, on 
the thought that Nora was now free from parental con- 
trol, and so v/as her money. It was but a small sum truly, 
but Ferris, who possessed the soul of tlie confirmed gam- 
bler, believed that once in possession of five thousand 
pounds, he could make a fortune out of it by careful spec- 
ulation. And, at all events, it would be better than a life- 
time with Eldon. 

He told himself Eldon need know nothing about it until 
afterwards — until he had assured himself that the five 
thousand pounds was to be had without any tiresome 
legal transactions. As for Nora! Well! he kneio he 
could count on her. 

Her engagement to Carnegie had, of course, reached 
him. Mrs. Vancourt had indeed been only too maliciously 
glad to tell him of it. But in his present calculations he 
took no heed of that. He put it behind him, out of his 
mind altogether, as a thing of no consequence ! He re- 
garded himself in such a sufficiently good light as to en- 
able him to believe that, once having loved him, the girl 
must necessarily love him always ; and to throw over 
Carnegie seemed to him as easy a matter for her, as for 
him to throw over Eldon Vancourt. 

He feels as sure of Nora’s constancy as of the sky above 
him, and if Eldon’s constancy has seemed quite as certain, 
still, really, Eldon has grown too intolerable of late. Even 
to be poor, or comparatively poor (he has always that pos- 
sible, speculative fortune in his mind), with Nora, would 


i^oBA cnmjsrA. liSl 

be better than to be the proud possessor of the ‘‘ stalled 
ox ” with Eldon Vancourt. 

Strangely enough, his frequent intercourse with Mrs. 
Vancourt in the houses of her friends, and in her own 
beautiful home, has only tended to waken within him all 
his old first deep attachment to Kora. The contrast had 
been great, but he was sufficient artist at soul to see where 
the real loveliness lay — and the very separation from 
Kora, the knowledge that he had of his own accord pushed 
her out of his life, had sharpened his desire for her. 

And even if the speculation on that five thousand pounds 
failed, it need not be starvation diet all through ! Lord 
Saggartmore would stand to him — would get him a berth 
somewhere. And even if he had to work (that would 
mean work, of course, of a sort)^ why, better to work in a 
mild, gentlemanly way, than sit in the lap of idleness all 
day — especially if the lap was to be that of Eldon Van- 
court. It occurred to him that he^^s would be a thorny 
lap, and decidedly uncomfortable. 

Still, it would not do to break with Eldon altogether. 
Better the “ stalled ox ” than nothing ! 

# * * # * 

It is with all these thoughts in his admirable mind, 
that he enters the drawing-room at Dunmore to find 
Kora tliere — alone. 

She rises. She looks at him ; a strange terrible look ! 
Oh! how the past comes back on her. Yet, after that 
first wild look, something seems to die away within her 
— What ? What ? She cannot tell herself what it is. 

She had been thinking of Ferris a good deal for the 
past week. 

She could not help thinking of him as those fateful three 
months drew to their close. 

And now, to see him ! She had believed him miles 
away — across the Channel — very far away from Dun- 
more. 

She stands staring at him, so far lost in a hateful' re- 
trospection that she forgets to give him her hand in 
greeting. 

He — superficial always — mistakes her breach of man- 
ners. 

“ Ah ! you have not forgotten — you do not forgive ? ” 
says he. 


S32 


KORA CUEINA. 


N'ora, in her black gown, is looking beautiful. The 
sombre hue of her gown throws out all the exquisite 
tints of her complexion. 

‘‘ It is not that,” says she slowly. 

“You are surprised to see me. Yes — I know. But I 
can explain ” 

He pauses — pleased, glad, because of the undeniable 
agitation that shakes her. Surely all this augurs well 
for him. 

“Explain?” questions she. She has grown strangely 
calm all at once. It is as though a wave of feeling has 
swept over her and left her sane, cold, shivering. 

“ Nora ! you cannot have forgotten how we parted ? ” 

“ No. I do not forget ! ” says she. Her tone is tinged 
with a terrible bitterness ! She can hardly recognize it 
as her own ! How changed it is. She is thinking — 
thinking ! That last parting! Has he forgotten, that he 
thus dares to remind her of it ? 

Had she ever loved him ? ever really loved him ? Oh ! 

surely that old past torment meant love ; and yet 

Had he always looked like that? with those shifting 
handsome eyes ? 

She draws back from him. Her breath comes quickly. 
All at once she seems to be looking into other eyes — 
calm, steady, earnest eyes ! 

With a suspicion of disgust in her gesture, she waves 
him from her. 

“What has brought you here ?” asks she. 

“ Can you ask? What a question from you to me ! ” 
says he vehemently. His vehemence is a little forced ; 
he is trying to read her face. “ Of course I came when I 
heard of ” 

“ I have heard too,” says she, interrupting him slowly ; 
“I have heard of your engagement ” 

“ My engagement ? ” 

“ To Mrs. Yancourt.” 

“Damn Mrs. Yancourt ! ” says he furiously — the girl’s 
air, that is almost imperious, and is quite contemptuous, 
maddening him. “ See here, Nora,” says he. “ What is 
Mrs. Yancourt to us — to you or me? You cannot have 
pushed me out of your mind so soon — out of your heart ! 
You cannot have forgotten our past — those evenings 
down by the river — by the old bridge — you ” 


mBA CBEIKA, 


83S 


“ Do you wish me to remember ? ” asks she, her soul 
sinking within her. Oh ! those past evenings ! Oh ! that 
she could blot out the remembrance of them forever. 
What a charm they once had for her — and now where is 

even the vaguest perfume of that charm ? Gone 

What sort of man is this? What coarse fibres run 
through his frame! Yet, once he had been her idol! 
Oh ! the agony of the moment in which she knows at 
last that her idol is but built of the very basest clay ! 

“ What am I to remember ? ” she bursts out suddenly, 
a very torrent of passion overcoming her. “ Your false- 
ness — your treachery — the giving up of your soul for 

money — the base, forsaking of love ? Truly you 

have your wish. I do remember ! ” 

“ This is revenge,” says he, very pale. 

“ Ah ! no ! ” with terrible sadness. It is only that I 
must remember, and that I canH forget ! ” 

“ That you won’t forgive, rather. But you will in 
time, Nora! You will — you must! Give me time!” 
His tone is impassioned. Never, even in the old days, had 
he seemed so lover-like, so altogether at her feet. He 
has indeed forgotten everything — every mercenary thought 
— every worldly consideration — (for the moment). He 
sees only the perfect beauty of her small, scornful face, 
the deadly coldness of her sweet, contemptuous eyes ! 
Now, in this hour when she repels him, she is sweeter far 
to his mean soul than in those other hours when she had 
given him the first fruits of her tender heart. 

“ You don’t know what you are doing,” says he; his 
vehemence is not forced now. “ To-morrow you will 
know, and you will regret. But let yourself know regret. 
It will bring you back to me. For you do love me, Nora — 
you do — think — think of the past — only a few months 
ago ! ” 

She shakes her head. He goes to her now ,and would 
have taken her hand, but something in her face checks 
him, what he could hardly have said, it is so calm, so 
quiet, so immovable. 

“ Ah ! you are angry still,” says he. “ And — I confess 
it — I was wrong — but what was I to do ? I, penniless, 

and you . But I shall be more generous to you than 

you to me. I shall give you time. I shall come back 
to-morrow — you will know then — you 


8B4 


l^OBA CitMNA, 


‘‘ Do not come back to-morrow,” says she in the tone 
that suits the strange, fresh quiet of her face. 

“ You are hard !” says he. His belief in her love for 
him still is almost fatuous. ‘‘ Who would have thought 
so cruel a heart could dwell in so sweet a body? You 
” He pauses. “ You will marry me, Nora?” 

Her heart seems suddenly to tighten. It is the very 
first time in all their intercourse that he has asked her 
directly to marry him. It was always naturally under- 
stood that they should marry some day, but the actual 
question had never been put till now. 

‘‘ No,” says she in a stifled tone. No.” 

“ JVo /” 

“ I shall never marry you! Never! I made a mis- 
take once ! I shall not make it again ! ” 

‘‘ Nora ! ” 

“ It is useless — useless ! ” says she, putting up her hand 
as if to check further speech on his part. I shall never 
marry you ! ” 

“ I won’t believe you ! ” cries he violently ; “ you don’t 
know what you are doing ! You — you know you loved 
me, Nora — a long time ago — and love — they tell us it is 
eternal ! Yon do love me still ! ” 

‘‘ As for that! Ah! No!” says the girl very sadly. 
“ All that is dead — dead. If love be eternal, then per- 
haps I never loved you — reall}/ / ” Her eyes as she looks 
at him are full of tears. 

“ If you feel it like that,” cries he triumphantly, do 
you think I cannot see that it is not dead ! Come ” — 
going up to her, and taking both her hands in his — “ I 
dare you say to me. It is dead ! ” 

Nora looks at him. Such a strange look. “ It is you 
who have said it,” declares she slowly. ‘‘ Yes, It is dead 
— dead ! ” 

“ What folly ! ” says Ferris. His tone is a little wild. 
Never has his heart grown so warm towards her as now, 
in this, his last hour with her. Something witliin warns 
him that it is his last hour ! A very passion of longing 
for her grows within his breast. 

“ Nora — darling — beloved — listen to me,” entreats he. 

“ To what use — what is to come of it ? ” coldly. 

“ Still listen — you shall ! ” says he, suddenly. 

“ Listen to what ? ” says Nora, “ to a hideous mockery 


ORm:^A, 


335 


of a love, in which you would have made me believe ? ” 

“ They have been lecturing you, I see,” says Ferris, 
with that sneer she so well remembers — she can even 
recollect that once she had admired it — ^had thought it 
charming, had noticed the aristocratic touch it gave to 
lip and nostril ! What a fool she had been. She could 
have laughed aloud, a terrible laugh, as she brings it all 
back to her. “ But if they lectured for ever, Nora, they 
could not move us. We are each to each — the whole 
world ; yes, deny it if you will, but ” 

“ Oh ! says Nora: she turns quickly. ‘‘Why 

prolong this ? ” says she. “ Tell me one thing — one thing 
only. Are you — are you not, at this moment, engaged to 
Mrs. Van court ? ” 

She waits for his reply. He hesitates. It is but a 
moment of hesitation, but her contempt cannot endure it. 

“ Answer me ! ” repeats she, imperiously. 

“ And what if I were ? ” says he boldly. “ Yes, it is 
true ! When I found I dare not plunge you — you whom 
I loved — into poverty I — well, I went mad, I think — and 
I told Eldon Yancourt that I would marry her.” 

“ Oh, what a way to speak of her,” says Nora. She 
shrinks from him as though she were Eldon Yancourt in 
jjerson. 

“ She’s a perfect devil,” says Mr. Ferris imperturbably. 
“ Don’t let your mind dwell on her. She is nothing to me. 
The moment I knew you were free — the moment I learned 
your step-father was dead, I came , to you. I thought of 
nothing but you. You have some little fortune, I believe, 
but that is nothing to me — I want you — you only. You 
micst believe that. You accuse me of loving Eldon Van- 
court, yet you can see it is hateful to me to have to put 
that accusation into words, but you must see that what 
you have — what your fortune is — is but a drop in the ocean 
compared with Avhat Eldon has. And yet, I come to you. 
Therefore ” — triumphantly — “ it must be plain to you that 
I love you, and you only ! ” 

The last vestige of color flies from Nora’s face. Oh, 
the hideous coarseness of it all. The laying bare of 
everything that is of the most sacred. At this moment 
she realizes the fact that she hates him. Hates this hand- 
some, paltry, vulgar man, who has the face of an Adonis, 
and the soul of a brute ! 


336 


NOUA CnmNA, 


All her former love for him lies dead now — dead and fit 
only for putting out of sight ! Oh ! that the burial of it 
may^be soo7i. 

Why do you stand there, looking at me like that?” 

says he. “ So coldly, as if Nora, speak to me! ” 

“ What can I say ? There is nothing,” says Nora. 

“ Oh ! There is ! There must be ! Are you stone ? 
Because I once failed, will you now deny me all — even 
one little corner in your heart. Nora, you sAa/^hear me ! ” 
He catches her arms suddenly, and so holds her, gazing 
into her eyes, as if to compel the return of her love. 

“ Let me go,” says she in a low tone, yet one full of 
horror. ‘‘ Do you hear ? Let me go ! ” 

“ Not until you listen — not until you 

“ I shall not listen,” says she, still in that same low 
curious voice. “ Your touch — your very touch — is hateful 

to me ! I desire you to ” 

“ Ah ! It was not hateful once,” says he, forgetting all 
things, even his manhood, in his passion, his rage, his fear 
of losing her. 

“ Let me go ! ” cries she fiercely. 

It is at this moment that the door is thrown open, and 
Carnegie enters the room. 

***** 


CHAPTER LXL 

“ Sweeter ’tis to gaze upon 

My Nora’s lid that seldom rises ; 

Few its looks, but every one, 

Like unexpected light, surprises. , 

Oh ! my Nora Creina, dear, 

My gentle, bashful Nora Creina, 

Beauty lies 
In many eyes. 

But love in yours, my Nora Creina !” 

Nora is the first to see him ! He looks so tall, so strange, 
that her heart dies within her. He shuts the door with 
a certain force, and strides up to her — a terrible look on 
his face. A sense of faintness overpowers Nora. She 
even forgets to withdraw the hand lying cold in Cyril’s. 
That look in Carnegie’s face has frozen her. 

By this time Carnegie is face to face with her. She 


i^onA cnmisrA. 337 

wrenches her hand free from Cyril’s at last, and stei3S 
back a little. 

‘‘ What ami to understand by this?” demands Carnegie, 
addressing himself solely to her. At this moment he 
could have killed her. “ Traitress ! traitress ! ” His 
heart is crying aloud. 

‘‘It means,” says Ferris boldly, “that I have been re- 
newing my proposals to Miss Carew.” 

“ AnsiGer me, Nora ! ” says Carnegie, his eyes blazing. 
He ignores Ferris as completely as though Ferris were in 
the next county. “ What does this mean ? ” 

“I told him ” begins Nora. She grasps the back 

of the chair near her. Carnegie’s face has frightened 
her. 

“You told him — 

“ That — that I ” 

Carnegie turns from her contemptuously. 

“You are free!” says he. “Quite free. You know 
that ! ” His tone is clear and stern, “ You have made 
your choice, I see.” 

Nora, with a face snow-white, comes suddenly forward. 
She would have spoken if she could ; but words fail her. 
Nature helps her ! Nature compels her to throw out her 
arms to him. 

“ No, no, no ! ” gasps she, speech at last returning to 
her. “ Stay ! Stay ! Don’t leave me ! I,” — with a last, 

wild effort — “I shall die if you leave mel ” 

Carnegie catches her. Such a little, fragile, lovely body. 
He strains her to his heart ! His face grows transfigured. 
Such a great, strong light was never seen as grows in his 
eyes. 

“ My darling ! My sweetheart ! My own girl ! ” 

Nora clings to him. She is sobbing wildly now. 

“ Oh ! tell him to go ! To go away ! To go away, for- 
ever Her sobs are growing wilder. “I don’t want 
ever to see him again. Tell him to go ! ” 

“ Oh ! hush — hush ! ” says Carnegie, pressing her head 
with one hand against his heart, as if to silence her. With 
the other he makes an imperious gesture toward Fer- 
ris. 

It is not necessary, however. Ferris, with the air of a 
beaten hound, goes to the door, passes it, and also the door 
of Nora’s forever ! 


22 


NOBA CBEINA, 


m 

Nora presently lifts her head, and glances fearfully 
around her. 

He is gone ? ” says she. “ Is he gone ? ” Again she 
looks round her. Yes ; the coast is clear ! “ Qh ! I’m 

glad,” cries she, drying her eyes instantly, and recovering 
at least a portion of her old spirits; spirits that have 
deserted her now for many a day. “Oh! lam glad!” 
cries she, laughing nervously. 

^'•Honestly glad, Nora?” He is looking at her very 
earnestly. 

“ I hope — I hope,” says she, standing back from him, 
and crossing both hands upon her bosom, “ that I shall 
never see him again.” Something in his face disturbs her 
now, and she runs to him. “ Oh ! I hate him. I do, in- 
deed. You — you have shown it all to me. You are so 

different ! You ” She shrinks away from him, her 

little, sweet face paling. “ Perhaps you — do not love me 
now ! ” 

“What does that mean, Nora?” says he, following her 
and taking her into his arms. “ That you love me now? 
Say that ! Say it, my beloved.” 

“I do — I do,” says Nora, clinging to him. “But you? 
I often wonder why you don’t hate me. And perhaps 
you do. Do you remember that last day — oh ! a long time 
ago — the day on the hill ? You said then — something that 
hurt me ! ” 

“I said then many things that were unpardonable. 
Things I have scourged myself for since ! ” 

“ Ah ! but there was one thing. I have never forgotten 
it. It has haunted me ever since.” 

“ What was it, my darling?” 

“ It was — you said ” 

“ Said %ehat^ my soul ! ” He is holding her fast in his 
arms. 

“ That you would never,” bursting into tears, “ be angry 
with me again ! Oh ! it seemed to put me so far away from 
you .” 

“ Nora, Nora ! ” 

“Oh ! do — do promise,” sobs Nora, wildly, “ to be angry 
with me very soon again ! ” 

“ I’ll promise,” says Carnegie ; to his everlasting chagrin 
1)6 it acknowledged that he is now consumed Avith a desire 
for laughter. “ I’ll promise to be angry with you every day 


NORA CREINA, 


339 


of my life, if that will add to your happiness. Oh ! my 
little darling, darling girl, what would I not do to make 
you happy ? ” 

‘‘ You needn’t do anything,” says she, smiling. She has 
dried up her tears on his handkerchief, and is now quite 
radiant again. After all, it was only a summer shower. 

“ Well, but I want to do something,” says he. “ And 
I’ve been thinking about Sophie and Denis. They are 
going to be married next month, are they not ? ” 

“ Yes ; and they are so happy,” says Nora. She laughs, 
as if at some secret thought. “ You never saw any two 
people so happy,” says she. 

“Never?” Carnegie looks at her — there is reproach, 
longing, inquiry in his eyes. 

“Well, any four people,” says she, at last, in a little 
smiling, abashed sort of way. 

“How sweet you are, Nora! How perfect 1'''^ says he. 
He catches her in his arms. “ But about Sophie. Denis 
and she will not be so very well off, will they ? ” 

“ No ; I’m afraid not. Though I hear he has had a 
brief or two since last he was in Town. You know he 
only ran down the day before yesterday. He even 
skipped his Christmas. He -is workmg very hard ; but 
it takes time ” 

“Yes ; a great deal of time. And in between a rising 
young barrister must live, and so must his wife. It has 
occurred to me, Nora, that as you and I shall be — well, 
tolerablj^ well off, you might as well make your sister a 
wedding present of that five thousand pounds that belongs 
to you.” 

“ To give that to Sophie ! ” Nora raises herself out of 
his arms, and looks up at him. “ You thought of that?” 
says she. “You!” 

“Yes. And you?” 

“ Oh ! I’ve thought of it too, and often,” says she, her 
eyes filling with tears. “ But it is yours now, and ” 

“Yes ; because — I am yours,” says she, in a low tone, 
but with a little, swift, sweet, upward glance at him. 

Carnegie looks at her. A quick delight floods his face. 

“ Fancy you saying that,” says he. He pauses, and 
draws her to him. Then : “ You mean it ? ” 

Nora nods, flushing warmly, delicately. 


340 


NOnA CREINA, 


“Well, but — say it P'" says he. 

“Say what?” 

“That you are mine ?” 

The flush grows deeper, and her eyes sink to the ground. 
Her hands stir nervously within his. 

“ I am yours ! ” says she, in the lowest of all low tones. 
“ With all your heart and soul? ” 

He still questions her, holding her hands, and reading 
her downcast face. 

Suddenly she looks up. 

“With all my heart and soul,” says she fervently. 
“ Oh ! believe me.” 

“I do. I believe you for now and forever,” says 
Carnegie. He stoops and kisses her gravely, almost 
solemnly, on brow, and eyes, and lips ! 

***** 

A last word about Ferris ! It so happened that Mrs. 
Vancourt heard about his attempt to throw her over and 
marry Nora. It maddened her to that extent that she 
threw him over, and accepted an old and impecunious 
baronet a month later. What became of Ferris is not 
known. But everybody knows how happy Nora is. 
There is only one married woman now in all the world 
who can rival her in her happiness, and that is — Mrs. 
Butler. 


THE END, 


AN ERRING WOMANS LOVE 



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Heat, Eight, and Work from Electric Currents ; Thermo-Electricity ; Electro- 
Optics ; Induction Currents ; Electro-Chemistry ; Telegraphs and Telephones *, 
etc., etc. 

The lUiistf'ated American says : 

“The electric wonders of the past and of the present are undoubtedly to be 
eclipsed by the discoveries and inventions of the near future. Research along 
these lines is open to all intelligent thinkers and readers. A happy thought, 
an instantaneous idea, inspired by a little leisure attention to the science, may 
result in riches and fame. 

“Elementary Eessons in Electricity and Magnetism, a book by the emi- 
nent professor, Sylvanus P. Thompson, is a book full of practical information 
presented in popular style and void of technical language. Scarcely a better 
book could be placed in the hands of those who have begun, or who would be- 
gin to give attention to the promising field of electric science.” 

{Sent post-paid on receipt of price.) 


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BY-WAYS /BIRD NOTES 

A BOOK FOR LOVERS OF BIRDS AND 
ADMIRERS OF NATURE 

By MAURICE Thompson. 

State Geologist and Chief of the Department of Natural History of Indiana, 
ind author of “Sylvan Secrets in Bird Songs and Books,” “His Second Cam- 
paign,” “Dong Extremes,” etc. 

The Contents: In the Haunts of the Mocking Bird; A Red Headed 
Family ; Tangle Deaf Pap/*rs ; The Threshold Of the Gods : Browsing and 
Nibbling; Cuckoo Notes ; Birds of the Rocks; A Fortnight in a Palace of 
Reeds ; Some Minor Song Birds ; Out-Door Influence in Diterature. 


“A delightful book for every home library ; a charming gift.” 

“Maurice Thompson is an ordained prophet of Nature! whenever he talks 
of either Birds, Weather, or Archery, the very leaves on the trees stop rustling 
to listen, and the clouds stand still in the blue to wonder .” — The Chicago 
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i2mo, cloth, 179 pp. Price, 75 cents. 


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A NOTABLE BOOK OF ADVICE 
AND CUGGEvSTION. 

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“It is in many respects of the highest value .” — Cincinnati Conunercial 
Gazette, 

Partial Contents. What Books to Read; How Much to Read; Re- 
membering What One Reads ; The Art of Skipping ; The Use of Note Books 
How to Read Periodicals ; What Books to Own ; The Use of Translations ; 
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A FAIR MAID OF 
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A STORY OF MASSACHUSETTS. 

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nature that she does not have to do anything improper or foolish 
to make herself interesting . . Ndiv York Herald, 


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"On old t,ong Island’s sea-girt sliore many on hour I’ve whiled away.*‘ 

LEGENDSOI^FI RE ISLAND 
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AND THE 

SOUTH 
SIDE 

COLLECTED AND PRESENTED 

BY PROFESSOR EDWARD RICHARD SHAW, 

Of New York University. 



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taken by a medallist of the Royal Photographic Society. i2mo, 
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gold on cover. Price, 75 Cents. 


THE CONTENTS. 

THE POT OF GOLD; THE MONEY SHIP; THE 
MOWER’S PHANTOM; THE MINERAL-ROD; ENCHANTED 
TREASURE; WIDOW MALLOY; THE BOGY ON THE 
BEACH ; NOTES. 

Concerning these stories of the folk-lore and tradition that 
pertained to the Great South Bay: 

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The Commercial Advertiser, New York, says "The best is ‘The Pot of Gold.’ ” 
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preserves her innocence through the watchfulness of her mother, Mrs. Cortesa, 
and becomes a famous dancer,” — Baltimore American, 

“You find, in this book, side by side with the most loathsome criminality, 
a degree of heroism which is startling . . . There is merriment in the 
book . . — New York Herald. 

“In some points there is, in Townsend’s ‘A Daughter of the Tenements,* a 
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CHIMMIE FADDEN. MAJOR MAX, and OTHER • 
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IDDUSTRATKD. i2mo, cloth, 346 pp. Price, |r.oo ; paper, 50 cents. 

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CHIMMIE FADDEN EXPLAINS, MAJOR MAX 
EXPOUNDS. 

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‘‘Chimmie Fadden is delightful . . . The reader would 

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“ The book is distinctly original.” — Neiv York Tribune. 

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